


In Dreams

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9594830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: FBI Agent Abbie Mills buys a historic home and discovers she is getting more than she expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reality is wrong. Dreams are for real. -Tupac Shakur

“Isn’t it amazing?” Abbie Mills asks her younger sister, Jenny, as she shows her around the dusty old mansion she just bought for a song.

“Isn’t is gigantic and falling apart?” Jenny shoots back. “Abbie, why? This… this house is hella huge.”

“I told you I was looking for a project,” she answers, disappointed her sister isn’t sharing her enthusiasm. “Danny – Director Reynolds – is forcing me to take this stupid sabbatical, and you know I’m not going to be able to do _nothing_ for three months.”

“I know, but I was thinking, I don’t know, scrapbooking, or like, baking, or… pottery,” Jenny replies, throwing her hands up. She walks toward her sister. “This house dates back to Colonial times, Ab. They probably had slaves here and everything!”

“The realtor gave me some paperwork on this place,” Abbie says, putting her hands on her hips. “The original owner… Lachlan Fredericks, was anti-slavery. An abolitionist. He had servants, but he _paid_ them and treated them well, by all accounts.”

Jenny narrows her eyes. “I’ll bet.”

“I checked into it, Jen. It’s true. I’m going to do more research, too, because I’m curious now,” Abbie says.

“Okay,” Jenny nods. Then she takes her sister’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shit all over your excitement. Maybe underneath the three inches of dust, this place could be… kinda cool.”

“Thanks,” Abbie replies. “And there are only _two_ inches, thank you very much. Come on. I want to show you the kitchen.”

Jenny follows her sister and asks, “So this was, what, a foreclosure or something? Why isn’t it preserved as historical?”

“Yes, it was, and I have no idea why not, but I’m definitely going to look into it,” Abbie answers.

“You have no appliances,” Jenny pronounces, looking around the kitchen. Other than that detail, it’s really not in bad shape.

“Captain Irving said I could have theirs,” Abbie informs. The Irving family is leaving Sleepy Hollow, the Captain wishing to retire to warmer climates. “The condo they’ve bought already has them.”

“You can _have_ them? Damn, wonder what I could score?” Jenny muses, half-kidding.

“Well, save their daughter’s life once and find out,” Abbie retorts, her voice edged with bitterness. She frowns lightly.

“Hey,” Jenny says, “she’s alive. That’s the important part.”

“Yeah, but she can’t walk. I didn’t get there in enough time,” Abbie answers. It’s a conversation they’ve had more than once. She knows the Irvings – and Macey – do not hold her responsible, but she is having some difficulty agreeing with them.

Which is why Reynolds “suggested” she take the summer off to “get her head straight”. Her self-imposed guilt was uncharacteristically beginning to affect her work.

“I’m not having this discussion with you again,” Jenny surrenders. “What kind of yard you got? Is there a big fancy gazebo? Ooo! I bet there’s a carriage house!” She heads for the back door.

“Jenny!” Abbie yells, jogging after her. “According to the paperwork, the carriage house fell over years ago,” she says. “I don’t know if there was a gazebo or not.”

“There was. There _had_ to have been,” Jenny insists. “A gazebo with a swing, where a young lady could sit with her gentleman suitor and let him get just far enough to give him hope, but not far enough to cause a scandal,” she says, dramatically waving her hand like a fan.

Abbie rolls her eyes. “Oh, good Lord,” she says. “I’m thinking of putting in a vegetable garden back here,” she continues. “Next year, though. Need to concentrate on the house this year.”

“So you’re serious then,” Jenny pronounces. “You’re going to fix this place up and actually _live_ here? Not like… flip it or anything?”

“I think so, yeah. Most of what needs doing is superficial. Cleaning, paint, that kind of thing. The previous owners updated the plumbing and electrical, so that’s all good.” She looks at her sister. “I’ve got plenty of room, as you said…”

Jenny holds up her hand and shakes her head. “You know I love you, but no thanks. I like my trailer. It may be a pile of crap, but it’s _my_ pile of crap. Not only that, but we’ve already proven we can’t live together. I don’t think having a giant house is gonna change that.”

Abbie nods. Their brief cohabitation in Abbie’s apartment when Jenny came back to town was short-lived and disastrous, prompting Jenny to find herself a nice little trailer in the trailer court near the edge of town.

“I know…” Abbie agrees. “But I thought I should at least offer.”

“I know,” Jenny echoes. She looks up at the rear façade of the mansion. “Damn, this place is huge.”

“It’ll keep me busy,” Abbie says. “I need this, Jen.”

Jenny simply puts her arm around her sister.

 

xXx

 

Abbie tackles the bedroom and kitchen first. She has until the end of the month before she has to be out of her apartment, and the end of May is just under two weeks away. Her sabbatical starts June first, so she also has limited time in which to work on the house.

“I just need it habitable; it doesn’t have to be beautiful. Not right now,” she keeps telling herself.

The master bedroom is large, but Abbie manages to clean it, paint the walls, and hangs room-darkening curtains in enough time. She even finds an area rug to warm the hardwood floor under her bare feet.

The appliances are moved in with three days to spare, and by that time, the kitchen is clean and the new flooring mostly installed.

She at least has a place to eat and sleep. That’s all she needs for now. Lord knows she doesn’t have enough furniture to fill the house, so she can shove it around to keep out of her way while she works. She’ll worry about permanent locations later.

 

xXx

 

The bedroom and kitchen are _just_ finished by moving day. Abbie leads Joe with the rented U-Haul, barely letting her Jeep turn off before hopping out and running to unlock the door, excited about finally getting to be in the house permanently. There were a few times where she worked late into the night and was tempted to just sleep there, but decided against it. She wanted it to be special. Official.

Plus, she didn’t relish curling up on the hardwood with nothing to cushion and cover her body except dropcloths and the fleece blanket she keeps in her car for emergencies.

So, with some help, her relatively few belongings were moved in to the giant house in almost no time at all. Her friends only asked to be paid in pizza and beer, so Abbie made sure to have plenty of the latter on hand for everyone (except for Sophie, who was designated driver due to her having to work early the next morning) and ordered the former.

“You gonna be okay here all alone?” Andy asks as they are all getting ready to leave.

“Oh yeah,” Abbie says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, you know my number if anything happens,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s 911,” she laughs. She and Andy have been friends since high school, and worked together at the Sheriff’s Department before Abbie left the force to join the FBI. She sometimes gets the feeling he’s a little fonder of her than she is of him, but he’s never pressed the issue.

“All right, Brooks, you’re holding up traffic,” Joe says, playfully shoving him.

Abbie hugs her friends goodbye, saving her sister for last. She can’t help notice that Joe seems to be lingering outside. “He’s waiting for you,” Abbie whispers in Jenny’s ear.

“He is not,” Jenny protests. Sophie honks the horn and Jenny replies with a salute using one finger.

“God, why are you dragging your feet? Go get your man,” Abbie says.

“He’s _not_ my man,” Jenny replies.

“Only because you won’t _go get_ him. You know he’s not going to make the first move. Because you’re scary,” Abbie points out. Jenny snorts, and Abbie adds, “Look at him; he’s like a puppy.”

Jenny glances out at Joe, who is trying not to look like he’s watching and waiting. “He is cute, isn’t he?” she admits.

“Yes. And so are you. Go,” Abbie urges. “I’m tired of watching you two dance around each other.”

“Enjoy your big-ass empty house,” Jenny says, giving her sister one more hug.

“I will,” Abbie replies. She watches as Jenny heads directly for Joe, who is pretending to tie his shoe. He straightens up and starts to say something to her. Jenny grabs his jacket and pulls him towards her, lifting up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his lips that should either answer or obliterate any question he was about to ask. Abbie chuckles and closes the door.

Then she locks both the knob and the deadbolt. “I should get a security system,” she mutters to herself, then heads to the kitchen to clean up.

 

xXx

 

Abbie is exhausted by the time her head hits the pillow. She doesn’t have a lot of things, but she has enough, and once the rush of moving into her first home had subsided, she crashed hard.

_It’s so quiet._ She’s beat, but the silence has her mind suddenly more alert. She’s not used to this amount of solitude. No kids running and screaming in the hallways. No mysterious thumps or – even worse – sounds of sex from the apartment above. No Mrs. Parker screaming at Mr. Parker next door.

It’s very dark and almost completely silent. She can occasionally hear the wind blowing outside, causing the window to creak a little. If she listens closely, she can hear the cars over on the highway. _I wonder if I’ll hear any owls… wait. What was that?_

Abbie opens her eyes and listens, even holding her breath. She could have sworn she heard footsteps in the hallway. Deliberate footsteps.

_There it is again._ She sits up, staring into the darkness. The footsteps are quiet, but definite. Almost as though someone is trying to be polite, like a person who has come home late and does not want to awaken the household.

Abbie reaches into her nightstand for her pistol, then swings out of bed. She walks on silent bare feet, approaching her closed bedroom door.

She slowly turns the knob, then peeks into the hall.

There’s nothing.

“Damn, go to bed,” she tells herself, shaking her head at her silly paranoia before closing the door.

_Definitely getting a security system,_ she thinks, sliding back into bed. If she’s this jumpy over some stupid house creaks that kind of sound like footsteps, she wants the added reassurance of an alarm, just in case someone _real_ ever does show up.

After about fifteen more minutes with no footfalls in the hallway, she finally drifts off to sleep.

When Abbie wakes up the next morning, she remembers having some sort of strange dream, but all the details elude her except one. She can’t seem to shake the image of a pair of intelligent, intense blue eyes from her head.

And for some reason she finds herself thinking about her old friend Katrina McCarthy, who she hasn’t seen or spoken to since the eighth grade.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do any more research?” Jenny asks one night the following week. She’s brought over Chinese food and a bottle of wine, demanding her sister take a break and entertain her.

“A little. I’ve mostly been peeling wallpaper,” Abbie answers. “It’s grueling.”

“‘I was looking for a project,’” Jenny repeats her sister’s words in a mocking sing-song. “Well, you found one, Baby Doll.”

Abbie laughs. “Shut up,” she says, throwing a fortune cookie at her sister. “Anyway, I do want to go to the library… at some point. Pass me the dumplings.”

Jenny hands the container Abbie, then says, “Well, maybe I can help there. I found this book yesterday.”

“Book?” Abbie asks, watching as her sister gets up and goes to her bag.

She pulls out a large hardcover book with a bookmark sticking out of it. “ _Historic Homes of New York State_ ,” she declares, brandishing the tome and running her hand across the title like she is a model on _The Price is Right_. “There’s a whole chapter on this place.”

“Ooo, gimme,” Abbie says, reaching for it. “Thanks,” she adds, smiling at her sister. “Did you read any of it?”

“No. Thought I’d let you have first crack,” Jenny answers.

“Where did you find this? It looks kind of old,” Abbie says, opening it to the bookmark.

“Were do I find most of the items I procure?” Jenny evasively replies.

“Ah. That famous ‘Here and There’ place you so love,” Abbie says, briefly looking up to raise a knowing eyebrow at her sister. They have an agreement: Abbie turns a blind eye to some of her younger sister’s activities, and Jenny doesn’t do anything that could result in words like _felony_ or _incarceration._

Jenny snorts, then sighs. “See, this is why I didn’t give you the book as soon as I walked in. I’ve lost you now.”

“Sorry,” Abbie apologizes. “I was just flipping through and saw the words ‘Underground Railroad’. Kinda drew my attention.”

“Underground Railroad? Really?” Jenny moves over to sit close beside Abbie, who smiles and points.

“It says there was a hidden room beneath the carriage house that was used to hide slaves on their way to Canada,” Abbie says. “It’s gone now, though. I guess the carriage house didn’t so much fall over as collapse into itself.”

“Oh, so the hidden room is now full of the structure that was above it?”

“So it seems,” Abbie answers, frowning. “Still pretty cool though.”

“Yeah.” The sisters stare at the book, at the grainy old photos, imagining what it must have been like then and saying a silent prayer of thanks that they live in this time. “We should find where it was and mark it somehow,” Jenny says after a few minutes. “Plant a tree. Put a bench there. Something.”

“I love that idea,” Abbie says, smiling. “We should be able to tell from this picture,” she adds, tapping a photo in the book. “We’ll do it some weekend. It’s getting too dark now.”

“And mosquito-y,” Jenny agrees, glancing at the window, then the clock. “Oh, shit, is it that late already? I told Joe I would stop by,” she says, standing.

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Abbie asks, giving her sister a knowing smile.

“You’re just jealous because I’m getting some,” Jenny counters, sashaying with an exaggerated hip swing as she walks to the door.

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Abbie deadpans. “Have fun,” she adds. “And behave yourself!” she calls as Jenny is half out of the door.

Jenny stops and turns. “Well, which is it? I can’t do both,” she says.

 

xXx

 

Abbie put the leftovers away, then decided she was done peeling wallpaper for the night and retired to the upstairs bathroom for a bubble bath. She takes her new book with her to read while she soaks.

The bathroom isn’t finished, but she did take the time to give it a thorough cleaning, so much so that it still smells slightly of bleach a week later. She can live with ugly, but not dirty.

As she reads, she makes comments aloud, not realizing she is doing so.

“It wasn’t even _built_ by slaves. Nice.”

“Whoa, it almost burned down once?”

“George Washington was a frequent guest… I thought every place Washington so much as took a crap at was preserved as an historic site.”

“Wait, someone died here?”

This last revelation causes her to sit upright, hot water sloshing, bubbles running down her skin. She’s heard the footsteps every night except the one where she stayed up far too late and fell asleep as soon as she hit her pillow. The next morning she reasoned she would have heard them if she didn’t have Beyoncé playing rather loudly while she was working. They always happen between 10:30 and 11, and that night, she was up well past midnight.

She reads some more, wanting to know more about the person who died, but the book only said he was a soldier in the Revolutionary War who was mortally wounded in battle and died in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

_Maybe that’s who is walking in the hallways._

Strangely, she finds she isn’t bothered by the notion that her house might be haunted by this soldier. He hasn’t done anything except carefully and quietly walk down the hallway. He’s a polite ghost.

_Maybe that’s who I keep seeing in my dreams. The thin man with the blue eyes._

“That’s stupid,” Abbie chides herself, settling back into the tub. Her eyes are getting tired, so she marks her page and sets the book aside. The dreams are a point of interest though. She only remembered his eyes after the first night, but she’s been gradually seeing more and more of him. She knows it’s a man, even though the only facial feature she has been able to truly see are his eyes. Judging from his silhouette, he’s tall, but most people are tall compared to the 5’1” Abigail Mills. He’s also rail thin, but carries himself gracefully, with a regal bearing.

And his posture is perfect. Like a soldier.

She gets out of the tub when she finds herself dozing off, and feels oddly pleased to note that she makes it into bed by 10:35. She doesn’t want the ghost to see her in the tub.

 

xXx

 

_Why am I awake?_

Abbie blinks and sits up, listening. She feels a curiously cold, despite the fact that she was covered, and runs her hand over her strangely chilled skin.

It’s quiet; there is no rain or thunderstorm. The wind is calm and there are no animal sounds.

She is just about to lie back down when she hears a noise downstairs.

_Those are not my ghost’s footsteps. That sounds like the front door._

“Shit,” she whispers, reaching into her nightstand for her gun. She also unplugs her phone from its charger and tucks it into what she had heretofore considered a superfluous pocket in her pajama shorts.

When she reaches the stairs, she hears footsteps and a whispered, “Shit.”

_Definitely not my ghost._

_When did I start thinking of him as “my” ghost?_

She silently descends, already knowing where the creaky places on the treads are, and when she gets low enough, sees a young man in her parlor. She loudly cocks her gun and he freezes. “Just so you know, I am an FBI agent and the best shot in this division,” she says, her voice level as she steps down from the stairs and walks forward.

The thief goggles at her, shocked. Then when he sees how small she is, he rushes her, thinking he can overpower the tiny woman.

She puts him on his back in seconds, and he hits his head on the way down, falling unconscious on her floor. He is skinny and unkempt, with stringy hair and a sallow complexion. A quick check in his pockets turns up a rusty pocket knife and a small zipper bag containing what appears to be crystal meth.

“Damn it,” she sighs, setting her gun down and jogging to her kitchen, where she has a set of handcuffs in a drawer. She returns, cuffs him, then calls 911.

“Brooks, they got you on night shift now?” she asks when Andy arrives at her door. “Traded with Morales for a couple weeks,” he explains. “So… this dude broke in?”

“Yep. I woke up and caught him creeping around down here,” she answers. “I… happened to wake up and heard him.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Andy comments, making notes.

“She was gonna shoot me,” the young man, now conscious and sitting on the floor, says.

“Did anyone ask you?” Andy asks the thief.

“I wasn’t going to shoot him,” Abbie says, rolling her eyes. Then she looks down at the man on her floor. “I knew I wouldn’t need to.”

“Bitch.”

“You know it,” Abbie retorts. “You need anything else?” she asks Andy.

“Nah, I’m good. Someone will probably call you tomorrow though,” he answers.

“Yeah, I know the drill,” she replies.

“Do you want us to send a car and have someone stick around till morning?” he asks, reaching down to help the thief to his feet.

“No, it’s okay. The lock still works,” she answers. “And _yes,_ I am having a security system put in. I called two days ago. They’re coming Thursday.”

“Good. Go get some sleep. Oh, and the house is looking good, by the way,” he says.

“Thanks. I’m trying to decide if I should have a housewarming party when it’s all done,” she ponders aloud.

“You totally should,” he urges. “It will be great.” The thief is staring at them like he can’t believe they are making social plans in the middle of his arrest.

“Probably,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Thanks, Brooks.”

“Just doing my job,” he replies. “Come on,” he says to the thief as the head outside.

“I thought this house was empty, I swear,” the man says.

“You didn’t see Agent Mills’ Jeep outside?” Brooks asks, giving him a look that clearly says _Try again._ “You’re just lucky Annie Oakley here _didn’t_ shoot you,” he says, turns to wink at Abbie, then ushers the thief into the back of his squad car.

“Who?” the criminal asks.

“Never mind. And don’t even get me started on what you were carrying in your pocket…”

Abbie closes the door, locks it, then stands in the parlor, listening to the quiet.

She goes upstairs and stands in the hallway. Waiting. It’s after 3 a.m., but she figures if her ghost woke her up to apprehend the crook, he may still be about. Sure enough, the floorboards creak behind her and she turns. “Did you wake me up?” she asks. Another creak, moving closer, but hesitantly. “Thank you,” she says.

 

xXx

 

_Abbie walks in a forest, surrounded by fog. The fog swirls, but everything else is still. Eerily so. Her feet seemingly move of their own accord. She isn’t afraid. The forest seems comforting. Familiar._

_She hears footsteps behind her. They are a longer stride than hers, but do not seem to be coming any closer. She turns and looks. Nothing._

_She keeps walking. She can feel the coolness of the misty fog; smell the slightly sweet, earthy smell of decaying autumn leaves._

_The footsteps continue, following closely enough for her to hear, but each time she tries to see the person, there is no one there._

_Until._

_She reaches a clearing, a circle of grass with four strange trees standing like soldiers on one side. They are white, but when she inspects them, she finds they are not birches, as she would have expected. They are simply white trees._

_She turns, her back to the trees, and she sees him across the clearing. Her tall, thin man. His ramrod-straight posture is unmistakable. She steps closer. He doesn’t move, but he does not appear any clearer._

_Abbie tries to call out to him, but finds herself unable to speak. She takes another step towards him._

_There._

_He has a beard. His hair is long, and though it is pulled back, there are some loose tendrils hanging around his face, gently blowing in a breeze she cannot feel._

_She steps closer and even squints, but his face will not come into focus._

_Frustrated, she starts walking faster, but it seems to take forever to cross the clearing._

_When she is finally halfway across, he bows to her, then disappears into the fog and trees._

Abbie’s eyes fly wide open, and she wakes up drenched in sweat, her heart beating faster.

However, she realizes she isn’t frightened or anxious.

She is exhilarated. This is the most she’s seen of her mysterious nocturnal visitor. Not only that, _he acknowledged her._

“He has to be the soldier who died here,” she whispers, glancing at the book.

She needs to learn more about this man.


	3. Chapter 3

Abbie goes to the library the next day. She has one wall left to peel in the living room, but she still needs to pick a paint color and pick up a few more supplies, so she decided to go into town.

The library is nowhere near Home Depot or on the way to any place Abbie needs to go today, but she finds herself parking the car in its lot instead of the home store.

She limits herself to an hour. She finds a few books as well as a lot of information on the computer, which she will be able to access at home.

She checks out the books, then goes to Home Depot and picks out paint in a soothing gray tone for her living room.

 

xXx

 

“Ichabod Crane.” She stares at the name, which she found on a copy of a document that was scanned to preserve it and now exists as a PDF on the library’s website. “What a terrible name, poor guy.”

But her ghost now has a name.

She manages to get the rest of the wallpaper off the last wall, then rewards herself with a sandwich and more research.

“Let’s see what else I can find about you, Mr. Crane,” she says, not really thinking about the fact that she is talking to herself. She types his name into Google, just to see what comes up.

Not really anything. She does learn that the name “Ichabod” comes from the Bible and means “no glory”.

“What an unpleasant thing to put on a child,” she muses, reaching for a chip. “Not only does the name suck, but the meaning is pretty unpleasant as well.”

She goes back to the library site and pulls up the document where she found his name, reading further. “ _Captain_ Ichabod Crane. Man was an officer,” she says, nodding her head. She continues reading. “He was married… no mention of the wife’s name here though. Typical.”

She scans the rest of the document and finds nothing, so she goes back to the main page. After a bit more digging, she happens upon another scanned file. The head housekeeper apparently kept a journal, and it was found when one of the previous inhabitants converted the summer kitchen into the back patio.

“Grace Dixon,” Abbie mutters, clicking past the first page. She quickly flips through the pages, looking for Ichabod Crane’s name to appear in Mrs. Dixon’s tidy handwriting. “Let’s see what you can tell me.”

Just when she is about to give up, she spots it, almost missing it. She had already clicked to the next page and has to go back one.

Again, she finds herself reading aloud.

“‘Captain Crane’s injury is dire. I am surprised he yet lives, the gash in his chest is so large. According to Colonel Sutton, the injury it came from a large Hessian soldier wielding an axe,’” she reads. “An axe? Seriously?” she comments. Visions of _The Walking Dead_ play through her memory, and she wonders why the Hessian didn’t just chop into Crane’s skull. _That’s pretty grisly,_ she chides herself. “‘He also reported Captain Crane managed to behead the Hessian with his sword before falling.’ Wow. Damn, son. I guess my imagination isn’t as grisly as his reality was.”

“‘The captain was brought here from the field hospital since Miss Katrina was with us at the time. She became quite frantic when she saw her husband’s injury,’” Abbie reads. “Katrina. So that’s why that name has been in my head. His wife was named Katrina.”

She continues reading the account, mostly silent now.

_They carried Cpt. Crane to the Blue Room, it being vacant at the time. He looked waxen and pale, and his breathing was shallow and erratic. His wounds were inexpertly dressed, and I was called upon to assist with his treatment, since I have the knowing of such things. Miss Katrina does as well, but she was in no state, choosing to hold his hand and offer the support of her love and devotion._

“The Blue Room,” Abbie mutters. She jumps up and goes to get the book Jenny gave her, thinking she saw something about a “Blue Room” in it. She knows her bedroom is the Master, because it is the largest. Which is why she chose it. The book confirmed this fact.

She starts skimming, and finds it quickly.

It is next door to hers. In the direction of the ghostly footsteps.

She makes a mental note to use blue when re-doing that room, and returns her attention to Mrs. Dixon’s journal.

_The wound was large and very deep. Joseph prayed over him while I attempted to improve the quality of his dressings, though I knew my attempts would likely bear no fruit. The cut – a gash, truly – was far too large and far too deep, and the captain had already lost so much blood. Miss Katrina and Mr. Lachlan assisted me as best they could. Miss Katrina, tears pouring from her eyes, finally made the simple request to make him comfortable. Then she asked us to leave._

_Joseph said one final prayer over Cpt. Crane, then we did as she asked, and left her to share her final moments with her husband._

_Mr. Franklin arrived a short time later, and demanded to see Captain Crane. I tried to persuade him to leave the dying man and his wife undisturbed, but, well, Mr. Franklin is the sort of man who treats rules – and laws – like they are merely suggestions. He merely grunted and marched upstairs, singing that crude sea shanty he is continually composing._

_According to Miss Katrina, Captain Ichabod Crane passed over at 10:43 p.m. Mr. Franklin saw to the body, with the help of Mr. Lachlan and Joseph. I tended to poor Miss Katrina._

Abbie leans back and rubs her eyes, Grace Dixon’s words swimming around inside her head. She decides she wants to go back to the beginning of the journal and read it in full, because not only will the journal of the head housekeeper provide unique insights about the house and its day-to-day runnings, but Mrs. Dixon is a rather engaging writer.

“Hoo, where did the day go?” Abbie asks, noting the time. She finally notices her hunger and goes to the kitchen in search of food.

“Well, Mr. Crane—oh, sorry, _Captain_ Crane, I guess that explains why you’re always walking the hallways upstairs at that time,” she says. “Look at me, talking to a ghost,” she adds, muttering, as she pulls out some leftover pizza, too lazy to actually cook something.

She crams 3 slices into a frying pan to reheat, then pulls a bottle of beer out of the fridge and pops it open. She holds it up in the air in a toast. “To you, Captain,” she says. “If you can even hear me.” She takes a swig, then sets it on the counter to check her pizza.

As she eats, she begins thinking. _What if it’s not Crane haunting this house and I’ve just convinced myself it is him because I want it to be? What if I’m simply losing my mind, like Mama did?_

“No. I am not losing my mind. Perfectly sane people talk to themselves all the time,” she says. Even so, after she finishes her dinner, she decides to go back to work on the house rather than diving back into the journal.

She still talks to herself – or Crane – while she works, even asking him what he thinks of her decorating choices.

 

xXx

 

_Abbie is in the forest again, but this time there is no fog. It is sunny, and she easily finds the clearing where she last saw Crane._

_This time, he walks further out, looking straight at her, his intense blue eyes holding her captive._

_She opens her mouth to call out to him; to say his name. Again, no sound comes. She cannot speak. Frustrated, she raises a hand in greeting, hoping to convey that she is friendly._

_“You have been reading about me.”_

_His voice is deep and soft, like crushed red velvet, and his words are accented with a British accent that can only be described as Upper Class. Abbie wants to roll around in it._

_She nods, and he takes a step closer._

_“I hope I have not been disturbing you,” he says. “I get restless at a certain time of night and must walk. I am afraid there is nothing for it.”_

_Abbie wills her feet to move, taking a step closer to him. She can finally see all of him. His eyes are still his most arresting feature, surrounded by expressive brows and a long, straight nose. His beard is neat and not too long, and his hair continues to gently blow in an unfelt breeze. He’s quite handsome, much more so than she was expecting. As they draw closer to one another, she is struck by how tall he actually is. Towering a full foot over her, she finds herself thinking he must have been a giant back in his day, when average heights were shorter than they are now._

_“Mrs. Dixon was a good woman and a good friend,” he says. “Katrina – my wife, as I’m sure you’ve learned – often visited her while I was away.” He sits on a boulder. “I was away… frequently.” He looks straight at her. “It was difficult, being a soldier, spy, and husband.”_

_Spy? Abbie hadn’t read anything about him having been a spy. She cocks her head slightly, intrigued._

_“I came to this country as a soldier in the British Army,” he explains, understanding her gesture. “The more I learned about this war and why it was being fought, the more I came to feel I was fighting for the wrong side,” he explains. He goes on to tell her more about how he came to work as a spy for General Washington until his cover was completely blown, after which he joined in the fighting._

_“Katrina took it all in stride. She came to this country before I, and was one of the people who helped me make my decision about… changing sides,” he concludes. Then, he sighs. “I do not know if it was my spy work, or my absences, but… I often felt distant from her.” He is staring off into the middle distance, almost talking to himself, like he has nearly forgotten Abbie was there. “Or rather, she seemed distant. I could not help feeling there were things she was not telling me.” He stands. “Of course there were things I could not tell her, but it is hardly the same. I was working as a spy.”_

_Abbie isn’t quite sure how to process all of this. She is beginning to feel awkward standing there listening to him, but she can’t leave. She doesn’t want to leave._

_Crane suddenly looks at her as if he senses her feelings. “Forgive me; I am prattling on so,” he apologizes. “I did not intend to unburden my innermost thoughts to you. It has simply been so long since I’ve encountered a sympathetic ear…”_

_She holds up her hand in a gesture of acceptance, hoping to convey that she doesn’t mind. He is a captivating storyteller, and she was enjoying listening to him._

_He stares at her, and she feels like he can see right into her soul. He opens his mouth to say something, but she begins to feel a curious pull – something drawing her away._

_“It is morning, my friend. May I call you friend?”_

_Abbie nods, then surrenders to the pull…_

…until she finds herself blinking awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. It is after 8:00, the bright sun peeking in through a tiny split in her curtains.

“My name is Grace Abigail Mills,” she says, her voice clear and strikingly loud in the silence of her bedroom. “Most people call me Abbie. I worked as a lieutenant in the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff’s department for four years, then—”

Her phone rings, interrupting her. She curses, then testily grabs her phone. “What?” she answers without really looking at who is calling.

“Good morning to you, too, Mills,” Daniel Reynolds’ voice greets her, his voice a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“Sorry, sir,” she immediately apologizes. “Phone caught me off guard, and I didn’t look at the caller I.D. What’s up?”

“Just calling to see how you are,” he says. “Give up on that giant old house yet?”

“I’m doing fine, and not even remotely close to giving up. It’s really given me something to occupy my mind,” she says, wisely choosing to not tell him about her ghost. She does want to return to her job at some point.

“Great. I’d love to come see it sometime,” he says, and Abbie inwardly cringes. She and Danny had a fling at Quantico, when they were both cadets. She broke it off before graduation because she realized she just wasn’t in it for the long haul, but he still seems to be carrying a bit of a torch for her. Neither one of them expected that he would become her supervisor, especially so soon. In fact, Danny had even commented that, based on their performance at Quantico, _she_ should actually be _his_ boss.

“I’m thinking of having a housewarming party once I’ve got it all fixed up,” she says, hoping that will mollify him.

“Oh, right. But I was actually kind of hoping—”

“It’s a mess here right now, Danny,” she cuts him off. “The only person who has been out here since I moved is my sister.”

“I hear Sergeant Brooks paid you a visit,” he says.

“Yeah, because some meth-head punk-ass kid broke in and I called the cops,” she says. “After I put him on his ass myself, of course.”

“Of course,” Danny echoes. “All right. I can wait. Take care, Mills.”

“I will. Thanks,” she replies. “See you in the fall,” she quickly adds, then hangs up before he can protest.

She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes for a few seconds, groaning. “Ugh,” she finishes. “Join e-Harmony or something, damn,” she mutters, getting out of bed.

 

xXx

 

Abbie finds herself talking to Crane a lot during the day, not quite sure how much he hears. She knows he can hear or see something of what she is doing and saying, based on the dream she had last night, but she doesn’t know how much.

_Are these actually dreams or something else?_ she finds herself wondering as she rolls gray paint on the living room walls after breakfast. They are so vivid, so detailed, and she remembers everything, which is very unusual. The strangest part is she seems to be rather… conscious in them as well. She can control her thoughts and actions as if she were awake. But what bothers her the most is that in these dreams – or whatever they are – she cannot seem to talk to him.

So she tells him what she can while she works. She says she hopes he likes her choices. Asks his opinion when she is trying to make a decision.

“Do you know it’s the year 2016?” she asks him, carefully running her brush along the edge of a window, her steady hands allowing her to paint the trim without using masking tape in most cases. “Does it bother you that I’m black? Or a woman? A single woman? A black, single woman who owns this historic home? You know things have come pretty far since… what was it? 1781? We have a black president. For a little while longer, anyway. Every adult citizen can vote. But even so, that ‘all men are created equal’ stuff is _still_ not quite there.”

She moves to the roller, painting in smooth, even strokes. “You would be amazed at the things we have now,” she continues. “Um, indoor plumbing, complete with hot water on command. Air conditioning. Cars. _Airplanes._ Hell, modern medicine alone would make your head spin.”

Eventually she runs out of one-sided conversation, and decides to put some music on. “I bet you’ll love this,” she ruefully says as she cranks up some Aretha. Before long, she is singing along, even shaking her booty a bit, either forgetting that her ghost may or may not be able to see her or not caring.

 

xXx

 

After lunch, she takes a break and returns to Grace Dixon’s journal. She continues where she left off, but it turns to more mundane matters. She is just about to flip back to the beginning like she planned, but then two words catch her eye, near the bottom of a page.

“Katrina” and “baby.”

“Katrina had a baby?” Abbie says aloud. “Did Ichabod know?” she adds, whispering. She looks up, looking around the room, heart suddenly racing. _He never mentioned anything about Katrina being pregnant. Never said anything about regretting not getting to see his child._ Somehow, she is certain he would have.

She almost closes the document, wondering if she should just say nothing about it. Then she remembers what he said last night. _I could not help feeling there were things she was not telling me._

She takes a deep breath. “Captain Crane,” she says, loudly. “I hope you’re listening. According to Mrs. Dixon… Katrina had a baby. Here, in this house. About six months after you died.” She pauses. “Did you know she was pregnant?” she asks, a little surprised at the waver in her voice.

Abbie bites her lower lip, then returns her eyes to her computer, scanning. “It says here that Katrina was visiting and was detained due to a storm. She unexpectedly went into labor… Mrs. Dixon delivered the baby… in the green bedroom, whichever room that is. I’ll have to look it up. Unless you know and can tell me later.” She reads more. “Ah. It was a boy. You had a son, Ichabod,” she says, unthinkingly using his first name. “I… I’m sorry if you didn’t know. I’m sorry she kept it from you,” she adds. _There’s no way Katrina wouldn’t have known she was pregnant before he died._

She goes quiet for a moment, trying to find out if the baby’s name is mentioned. “Six pounds, seven ounces… eighteen inches long… born 6:18 p.m…” She reads out any details he might find interesting. “Brown hair, blue eyes… pretty standard there… Aha. Jeremy. His name was Jeremy. Not seeing anything about a middle name though. I’ll look for more tomorrow, if you want.”

Abbie leans back in her chair, stretching. “Ugh, I need to get back to work.” She has slightly more than one wall left, and she really wants to finish the room today. She closes her laptop and walks back to her paint roller, heart a little heavy, wondering what the night will bring.

 

xXx

 

_Abbie doesn’t have to walk to the clearing. She finds herself there immediately. It is night this time, but there is a full, bright moon shining overhead, casting everything in an eerie, silvery-blue light._

_She can tell he heard everything she said as soon as she looks at him. She holds her breath and clasps her hands in front of her mouth, waiting for him to speak._

_“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says, his grateful words contradicting his forlorn expression._

_Abbie startles slightly, wondering why he is addressing her by that title. Then she remembers. She was interrupted by Danny’s phone call before she could continue telling him about herself. She finds she doesn’t mind him addressing her so; she rather likes the way he pronounces the word._

_“I am… touched… that you regarded me highly enough to not keep that information from me,” he continues, his long fingers twitching at his sides. “I did not know Katrina was with child at the time of my death…” Here he trails off for a moment, still struggling with this news._

_Abbie instinctively reaches a hand out to him in comfort, but then drops it, figuring she cannot – or should not – touch him._

_“I must admit I was shocked at this revelation, but… I wish I could say I was surprised she kept it from me. I… I do not know if it was intentional or merely an oversight, but,” he pauses, sighing as he sits on the boulder, “it merely vindicates my feeling that she was not completely forthright with me.”_

_Abbie places her palm on her chest, hoping to convey sympathy._

_“Thank you,” he replies, understanding. He begins slowly pacing. His hands are behind his back, but his fingers are still rather active. “I… I am still reeling from this news. Why would she not tell me? What else do I not know about her? My_ wife, _the person I should know as well as I know myself, the person I should be able to trust above all others.”_

_She watches him rant, knowing he needs to get it out. It breaks her heart to watch his heartbreak. She’s long since accepted she_ likes _this man. This ghost. He’s charming and intelligent, and seems to be the type of true gentleman that has gone extinct. If pressed, she would refer to him as a friend._

_She could easily forget that he’s dead._

_“Our marriage started out happily enough, of course. I would not have asked for her hand if I was not happy,” he continues. “We were not married long before I… died… but… after the first few months, things started to change. She would leave and not tell me where she had been. She was evasive. I encountered locked drawers and cupboards in my own home, and when I asked about them, she merely shrugged and gave a noncommittal response.” He stops pacing and runs his hand through his hair, dislodging the tie holding it back in its queue. His hair falls loose, framing his face in a manner that Abbie would have found quite attractive had she not been so distracted by his anguish. “Perhaps that is why she did not tell me. Perhaps she was planning on… taking measures to…”_

_Without thinking, Abbie rushes forward and reaches her hand out, but she remembers herself before she grabs his hand, and stops short._

_“I pushed a lot of these troubles away, telling myself I was being silly,” he says, looking down at her, then off into the distance. “I should have trusted my instincts. Though I do not know what I could have done. Katrina was a Quaker, and for them, divorce was almost unheard of. It was an absolute last resort.”_

_Abbie continues to listen, though he largely seems to be thinking aloud at this point. She feels helpless. Unable to speak, she keeps having to suppress the urge to touch him to offer some sort of comfort._

_Crane suddenly stops speaking and looks down at her. She stares back, offering an understanding smile._

_“Thank you for your kind attention, Miss Mills,” he says. “As I stated earlier, it has been years since I’ve had someone who will listen to me. I do tend to drone on, I’m afraid.”_

_She vehemently shakes her head, telling him she doesn’t agree._

_“You said you were formerly an officer of the law,” he says, changing topic without notice. She nods, and he continues. “You were interrupted by that… musical device before you could continue telling me about yourself. When you awake, do please continue.”_

_Her eyebrows lift in surprise._ He wants to know?

_“To be quite honest, I find you… fascinating,” he admits. “How such a petite, beautiful woman can have a career in such a field… such a thing would not have been possible when I was alive.”_

_Abbie nods, then rubs her index finger back and forth on the back of her hand, indicating her skin._

_“Indeed, there was that issue as well,” Crane allows. “And I want you know that I was a staunch opponent of slavery and frequently spoke out against it.”_

_She nods again, beginning to feel that pull towards consciousness. She looks up at him, wide-eyed. She doesn’t want to go._

_“It is time, Lieutenant,” he says._

_Abbie frowns._

_“We will see one another again, dear friend,” he adds. “But… if I may…?”_

_She nods._

_“Will you attempt to learn what became of my child?” he asks._

_She nods again, emphatically this time._ Of course I will. _She surrenders to the pull, and the last thing she sees is Captain Crane giving her another deep bow._


	4. Chapter 4

Abbie is just getting her couch into place – at least she _thinks_ this is the place this time – when a knock sounds at her front door.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, talking to Crane. She had been telling him about her Adventures in Foster Care. “Don’t go anywhere,” she adds, laughing at her own joke as she walks to the door.

Her realtor had sent her a text earlier that morning, saying she had some information on the house for her. “Hey, Caroline,” she greets, her smile turning into a puzzled frown when she sees the other woman’s anxious expression. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, maybe,” Caroline says. She is momentarily distracted by the changes Abbie has made in the house. “Wow, you’ve really scrubbed this place to within an inch of its life!” she exclaims. “Oh, I love this gray,” she adds, following Abbie into the living room.

“Thanks,” Abbie answers. “Coffee?”

“No thank you,” she replies. “Okay. Okay. I…” she starts, trying to get to her point.

“Sit down, then tell me what has you all frazzled,” Abbie suggests, motioning to the freshly-placed sofa. “Now. Is the something-maybe-wrong going to result in my losing this house?” she asks.

“No. Well, not unless you want to,” Caroline answers. “It’s just… I found some more information on the history of this house, and I learned that… well…”

“Someone died here and is possibly haunting the place?” Abbie asks, deciding to throw in the “possibly” just to be safe. Caroline’s eyes widen in surprise, and Abbie adds, “I already know that.”

“You do?” Caroline squeaks.

“I’ve been doing some research of my own,” Abbie answers. “And it’s fine. It doesn’t bother me.”

The realtor exhales, relieved. “Oh, thank God,” she says. “I was so afraid you were going to want to put it back on the market, and it won’t be so quick to sell at regular list price as it did as a foreclosure. Also, I didn’t want you to be mad at me. I’m not legally obligated to disclose if a house is rumored to be haunted, but… I like you and I didn’t want you to think I was keeping something from you.”

Abbie chuckles. “Nah, it’s all good,” she says. “Just out of curiosity though, what information did you find?” she asks. True to her word, she has been trying to search for anything on a Jeremy Crane from the late 1700s, and has thus far come up empty.

“Oh,” Caroline says, digging into her leather valise and withdrawing an old book and a thick folder. “These are for you.”

“Wow, thanks,” Abbie says, opening the folder and flipping through the pages, her eyes automatically looking for the name _Jeremy._

“Apparently, it was a soldier from the American Revolution,” Caroline says. “He was wounded in battle and then brought here, where he died.”

“Yes, that’s what I found, too. Captain Ichabod Crane,” Abbie says, setting the folder and book aside for now.

Caroline leans forward and starts speaking in hushed tones. “People reported hearing footsteps upstairs at night. Like, the same time every night,” she says, sounding like she’s delivering the juiciest gossip in Westchester County.

_10:43 p.m., the time he died_ , Abbie thinks. “Old houses like this are creaky,” she says with a shrug. “But I’ll keep an ear out for him.”

“You’re seriously not bothered?” Caroline asks.

“Well, I’ve been here about three weeks. The walls haven’t started bleeding and I haven’t gotten any ominous messages scrawled in my bathroom mirror, so I think I’ll be okay,” Abbie says, trying to keep her voice even. _Why am I lying? Oh, it’s because I don’t want people to think I’m crazy._

Caroline laughs, then her phone chimes. “Oh – I’ve got a showing to do,” she says, looking at her phone and standing. “Thanks, Abbie.”

Abbie stands and walks her to the front door. “You’re welcome. Thanks for the stuff,” she replies. “I’m really enjoying it here. It’s just what I needed,” she says, and realizes it’s actually true. Between the physical work of fixing up the house and her strange, one-sided conversations with her ghostly roommate, she feels better than she has in a long time.

“Oh, that’s great,” Caroline says. “And it’s looking amazing.”

“Thanks,” Abbie responds with a smile. “Have a good day,” she adds, opening the door.

“You too!” Caroline replies, then bounds down to her car.

Abbie closes the door and leans back against it for a second, trying to decide what to tackle next. The stack of papers on the coffee table beckons, but she steels her resolve and heads to the downstairs half bath, ready to take on more wallpaper.

“Okay, Crane. Where was I?”

 

xXx

 

Abbie works until dinner, only stopping for a brief and uninspiring lunch of a grilled cheese sandwich and fruit cup. After a similarly subpar dinner of various takeout leftovers, she settles in with her new materials from Caroline.

She picks up the book, carefully turning it over in her hands. It’s very old, and when she opens it, she discovers it is a log book that had belonged to some minor official.

_No. It belonged to a minister._

“Reverend Alfred Knapp,” she reads aloud. “Did you know him, Crane?” she asks. Then she adds, “Am I going to see you tonight so you can answer these questions?” He doesn’t visit her every night, which generally doesn’t bother her. She doesn’t know all the rules for ghosts, if there are any, but perhaps he isn’t able. Or it drains his ghostly essence. But this is the longest stretch it has been where she hasn’t seen him – four days – and she’s getting a little irritated.

And she’s kind of irritated with herself about being irritated at not getting to see him.

“Probably just wants me to find out what he wants to know,” she testily mutters. She’s not really sure why she’s so annoyed at his absence, but she’s not ready to really examine that issue at the moment.

She flips through the pages and pages of pointy handwriting. Weddings, baptisms, funerals, et cetera.

“‘Captain Ichabod Crane and Katrina Van Tassel, married 16 September, 1780.’ So you were married, what, less than a year? And she still managed to get all shady during that time, wow,” Abbie says. She scans the pages for the record of Crane’s death. “Ah. ‘Captain Ichabod Crane, died 28 July, 1781. Succumbed to a chest wound in battle. Died at Fredericks Manor, 10:43 p.m., attended by his wife and B. Franklin.’” She looks at the entry, blinking. _Something is off with this entry. Something missing._

She flips back a couple of pages and finds another death entry. It contains information about the funeral and burial, including the location of the grave.

“Were you not buried?” she asks aloud. “Grace’s journal said Franklin dealt with your body. He and…” she pauses, snapping her fingers, “her husband and Mr. Fredericks.” She looks at Crane’s death entry again. “Maybe Joseph Dixon officiated your funeral, since he was a minister, too,” she theorizes. Grace’s journal has proved a fascinating read, but has given her no other information about Crane and his life. Or death.

“Okay, let’s see if we can find young Master Jeremy,” she says, deciding to ponder the Burial Issue another time. She would like to go see his grave. Bring him some flowers, maybe.

A few minutes later, she finds it. “‘Jeremy Thomas Crane, born 13 January, 1782.’ So it must have been a snow storm that detained Katrina in the house,” Abbie says. “I had assumed a thunderstorm or something.” She leans back, stretching, then flips to the next page. “He was baptized the following month. Someone named Abraham Van Brunt was named his godfather. Maybe a relative of Katrina’s?”

She quickly scans the rest of the book, but finds no other mention of Jeremy. She is just about to give up when she sees Katrina’s name again, near the end of the journal.

“‘Katrina Van Tassel Crane Van Brunt, died 8 August, 1787. Burned at the stake for the practice of witchcraft,’” she reads, her voice hushed. “Oh, shit.” She stares at the entry, saying nothing, literally dumbstruck.

Katrina got married again, presumably to her son’s godfather. Reverend Knapp apparently did not perform the ceremony, or it would have been logged. Abbie flips back through, double checking. There is nothing. “Hmm,” she puzzles.

Katrina was a _witch._ Or at least was found to be one, and was executed for it.

Then she remembers some of the things Crane told her about his wife and his suspicions.

She never thought there ever actually were _real_ witches. She was always of the opinion that things like the Salem Witch Trials happened because the white men in power couldn’t handle women being strong or independent. _That still may have been true, but..._

“Well, that may explain the locked cupboards,” Abbie finally says. “Oh, Crane, I am sorry. I truly am.”

 

xXx

 

_It is warm in the clearing with a gray sky above, and Crane looks contrite when he sees Abbie. In light of her latest discovery, however, she doesn’t give him any grief. She had planned on greeting him with a saucy expression and her arms crossed over her chest, but she decided it wouldn’t be fair to pile on with her petty neediness._

_Or whatever this feeling is._

_Abbie places her palm on her chest again, and he responds with a nod._

_“Thank you,” he says. “You have been so diligent in doing research for me, even while you have other tasks to which to attend. I wish I could repay you with more than my gratitude.”_

_She shakes her head and waves her hand, telling him it is okay._

_He heavily sits on the boulder. “A witch,” he sighs. “I… how? I never believed that people actually practiced witchcraft. I always assumed those accusations spawned from the insecurities of ignorant men.”_

_Abbie’s eyes widen, and if she could laugh, she would. She can’t believe her ears. This antiquated man must have been well ahead of his time._

_He tilts his head to the side. “I suppose it is possible – and likely – that she was_ not _a witch and was merely burned at the stake as one, as so many women were. But… if she_ was _, that would explain the secrecy. The locked drawers and cabinets. The absences and vague explanations on her return.”_

_She nods, hoping he understands she had the same thought, and takes a step towards him, encouraging him to continue._

_He looks up and says, “Abraham Van Brunt was my best friend.”_

_Abbie’s lips form a silent O of surprise._

_“He always fancied Katrina, but she only had eyes for me. Or so I thought. I am beginning to question every word she said to me; beginning to wonder if I truly knew my wife,” he says with a sigh. “I do not fault her for marrying again. I hope Bram was good to her.” He shakes his head as though trying to clear it, and waves his hand in a gesture of finality, obviously wishing to move on. “No matter. What is done is done.” His fingers twitch in his lap a moment, and he says, “I only wish there was more information on my son.” He looks up, sees Abbie biting her lower lip, and he leaps to his feet. “Oh, I did not mean it that way, Miss Mills!” he exclaims. “I know you have been doing your best, and I appreciate it more than I can express.”_

_She nods, wanting to be able to tell him she will keep working. That she will start looking for a Jeremy Van Brunt instead of a Jeremy Crane, because it is possible Abraham may have adopted the boy and given him his name, especially after the death of his mother._

_“I hate to ask such a thing, but will you—oh,” he abandons his question when he sees Abbie nodding before he finishes asking it. “Thank you. You are a truly good person, Grace Abigail Mills,” he declares. “’Tis a pity we did not meet when I was alive… though that time would not have been ideal for a woman such as yourself. Your talents would have been wasted, I fear. Among other issues, which we have already discussed.”_

_He gazes down at her, admiration clear on his face._

_Once again, she has to suppress the urge to physically reach out to him. Instead, she simply meets his gaze, indulging herself in the simple act of looking at him._

_“I know I owe you an apology,” he says, breaking this silence as he takes a halting step towards her. “And I am sorry, Miss Mills. I did not realize my absences were a source of distress for you.”_

_She smiles and shakes her head, waving her hand to tell him it’s all right._

_He bows his head, looking at his boots. “I do not visit every night because I do not wish to be a nuisance. In truth, I am not always able, but there are times when… I wish to see you, but I choose to leave you in peace.” He looks at her. “Please do not think I only wish to visit when you have information for me. I always wish to visit you. I remember everything you tell me during the day, and… it pains me that I am unable to reply immediately. If you wish it, I will come to you as often as I am able.”_

_Abbie immediately nods, and when he responds with a shy smile that transforms his very handsome but usually very serious face, it warms her heart._

_He begins telling her how much he appreciates all that she has shared with him, and how he likes the way she explains things he may not understand in a manner that is not condescending. He asks her to tell him more about the FBI and the curious rectangular devices on which she relies for information, communication, and music._

_“And I have been remiss in telling you… You have a lovely singing voice. I… am puzzled by some of the music, but I enjoy listening to you sing very much,” he says. “I am still not sure if I enjoy the music from the young woman who sings about getting into formation and putting a ring on it, but I did rather like the other woman… the one who was spelling the word ‘respect’. I enjoyed her songs very much. And the man… with the purple rain and crying doves… I wound up enjoying his music more than I at first expected.”_

_Abbie smiles, making a mental note to tell him who she is listening to when she plays music._

_“You are a woman of immeasurable talent, Lieutenant, and you honor this house – nay, this earth – with your presence,” he concludes. He looks down at her with an expression close to adoration._

_Her eyebrows shoot up at this praise. Just when she thinks she’s gotten used to his flowery way of speaking, he ups the ante._

_“You are also extraordinarily beautiful,” he blurts, his eyes still holding her captive. “I hope you do not mind my saying so.”_

_Trapped in his gaze, all she can do is shake her head. She feels something cold on her hand, and looks down to see his long fingers wrapping around her small ones._

_He lifts her hand and bends over it, kissing the back of it. His lips are cold, like his hand, but very soft. His eyes are closed and he looks almost blissful._

_Then she is pulled away, back to the world of the wakeful living._

The next morning, Abbie finds herself repeatedly staring at her hand. She can still feel his lips. The intriguing tickle of his beard against her skin.

“Get it together, Girl, he’s dead,” she says, shaking her head, telling herself she is not crazy. Maybe if she keeps saying it, it will become true.

 

xXx

 

“ _Who_ are you talking to?” Jenny’s voice makes Abbie jump, and she drops the broom she is holding. She was lost in her one-sided conversation, explaining her job to Crane while also educating him about Michael Jackson, and didn’t hear her sister enter without knocking.

“Jenny! Jeez!” Abbie exclaims, bending to pick up the fallen broom. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Obviously,” Jenny replies. “But you would have if you’d look at your phone once in a while. I sent you a text. Three texts, in fact.”

“Oh. Sorry. Been busy,” Abbie apologizes, wondering how much her sister heard.

“So I see. Living room looks great,” Jenny says. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t,” Abbie returns. She’s actually been thinking about telling Jenny about the ghost. If anyone would understand, she would. “I’ll… tell you later. What’s up?”

Jenny’s brow furrows, but she shrugs and accepts the answer. “I brought you something,” she says.

“You did?” Abbie asks, not seeing anything in her sister’s hands.

“It’s outside,” Jenny explains. “Come on.”

“Let me turn off Michael, hang on,” Abbie says, going to her iPod dock and hitting the _Pause_ button. She follows her sister out into the early afternoon sunshine, and sees a tree in a pot. She smiles. “For the Underground Railroad thing,” she says. “I almost forgot.” _Been too embroiled in Crane’s affairs._

“I didn’t,” Jenny replies, grinning. “Do you have a shovel?”

“Yeah,” Abbie answers. “Let me get it.” As she walks to the garage, she thinks about how to bring up the subject of her ghost. By the time she returns, she hasn’t come up with anything.

“It’s a flowering cherry,” Jenny says. “Thought something pretty would be nice.”

“Sounds perfect,” Abbie says. “Will we get cherries?”

“No, just flowers,” Jenny answers, lugging the tree while Abbie carries the shovels. “It’s mostly done this season now though, sorry.”

“That’s all right. I’m too busy to enjoy it anyway,” Abbie replies, noting a few stalwart but drooping blooms clinging to some of the branches.

“Yeah, too busy to call your sister or anything,” Jenny comments, but her tone is light.

“Sorry,” Abbie apologizes.

“It’s cool; I was just teasing. I’ve been busy, too. Hawley has me running my ass off these days,” Jenny says. “You’re sure this is the spot?”

“According to the book you gave me, another one at the library, and numerous grainy photos I found online, yes,” Abbie answers. “I don’t think we should dig exactly where it was though. Just in case.”

“Good call. Wouldn’t want to fall through or anything,” Jenny agrees, holding her hand out for a shovel. They begin digging, and she asks, “So you gonna tell me what you were doing when I got here or nah?”

“I have a ghost,” Abbie bluntly answers, deciding the direct approach is best.

Jenny stops digging. “ _You_ have a ghost,” she repeats.

“Well, the house does, so, by extension, so do I,” Abbie clarifies.

“And… you aren’t leaving why?”

“Because he’s a nice ghost.” She is careful not to refer to him as “friendly” because then Jenny will never stop calling him “Casper”.

Jenny stares at her sister. “Aren’t you the same person who flat out refused to go to that haunted house when you were 17 because, and I quote, ‘I don’t do haunted houses’?”

Abbie makes a derisive snort and rolls her eyes. “There’s a big difference between a bunch of idiots in costumes jumping out of closets trying to scare you and a real house that happens to have a very polite and helpful ghost.”

Jenny picks up the tree, then sets it back down. “Wait. Hold up. How in the hell is this ghost polite and helpful?”

“Hold the trunk, I’ll work on the pot,” Abbie says, waving her hand. She crouches down and bangs on the side of the plastic pot with her fist, trying to loosen it from around the root ball. “You know that break-in I had? I didn’t just _happen_ to wake up,” she explains. She goes on to tell her sister the whole story. The footsteps, the story of Crane’s death, and how he woke her up so she could deal with the thief in her house.

“Okay, this is too much,” Jenny holds up her hands. “You need to show me, because I need proof that you’re… that you’re not…” She won’t say what they’re both thinking. _That you’re not going crazy like Mama did._

“I’ll show you what I can,” Abbie says, glancing upwards. “You think it’s going to rain?” she asks.

“Forecast says it should tonight,” Jenny answers. “You still need to water it now though.”

“I know,” Abbie replies. “I need to get a garden hose,” she mutters, taking a large plastic watering can to the spigot on the outside of the house.

“A long-ass garden hose,” Jenny agrees. “I do believe in ghosts, by the way,” she volunteers. “I’ve seen too much weird shit in my travels to not.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Abbie says. She turns the water off and they walk back to the tree. “It’s a nice tree,” she declares, stopping to look at it.

“I like that tree. That is a nice tree,” Jenny says in her best Donkey voice.

Abbie laughs and playfully swats her on the arm before going to water the tree. “Okay. Come inside, and I’ll show you what I’ve learned,” she says. “He doesn’t make any noise until after 10:30 at night,” she adds. “So don’t expect any parlor tricks. He can hear and see what’s going on, but he can’t actually talk back to me until I’m asleep.”

Jenny stops walking. “What?” she asks.

“Oh. Um. Yeah. That’s another thing. He sometimes visits me in my dreams,” Abbie admits. “I can’t talk to him then, but he is a regular chatterbox,” she adds with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, that’s not normal,” Jenny declares, shaking her head. “So… if I’m to believe this… you talk to him during the day and he talks to you at night.”

“Basically,” Abbie says. “Come _on._ Do you want to find out about this or not?”

“Totally,” Jenny answers. “Hey, Ab?”

“What?”

“Let me know if he does anything shady while you’re sleeping. I’m not above kicking a ghost’s ass,” Jenny says.

Abbie huffs a laugh. “Thanks, but he’s… actually a gentleman.”

“Weird.”

 

xXx

 

“Damn.” Jenny stares at the screen, reading Grace Dixon’s journal. “This woman was pretty cool.”

“I know, right? I couldn’t put it down,” Abbie agrees. “Wait, I forgot the folder Caroline gave me.” She dashes away to grab the folder, returning in seconds. “So do you believe me now?”

“Abbie, I always believed you. You’re the level-headed one, remember?” Jenny replies. “You said this… Captain Crane died in the room next to yours?”

“Yes. The Blue Room. I might paint it blue again,” she answers. _I need to ask Crane about that. I don’t want to upset him._ She decides not to ask while Jenny is there, though. Don’t want to freak her out any more.

“Interesting,” Jenny says. She picks up the folder and begins leafing through it. She suddenly stops, staring at something. “Hey, Ab?”

“Yeah?”  
“Have you looked through this yet?”

“Not really. Been spending more time with the reverend’s journal and online, why?” Abbie asks, leaning over to see what her sister is looking at. “Oh. _Oh._ ” It’s a genealogy of Grace Dixon’s family.

“Yeah,” Jenny agrees.

At the very bottom of the chart is the name Grace Rachel Roberts.

“That’s Granny,” Abbie whispers. Their maternal grandmother died just before Abbie was born, so neither sister actually knew her, but they do know her name. Especially because Abbie was named for her.

“That means we’re _related_ to the woman who ran this house,” Jenny replies, also whispering. She looks up at her sister. “That is _so_ cool!”

Abbie’s heart is beating furiously. “She would have been our… I don’t know how many times over great grandmother.”

“So you’re – _we’re_ – connected to this guy after all, huh?” Jenny ponders, staring that the chart. “And it’s kind of cool knowing that we can trace our family line back this far… to someone who was _not_ a slave.”

“I think that may be the best part,” Abbie agrees. “She was educated and eloquent, and, according to Crane, a very good person.”

“That’s awesome,” Jenny agrees. “So. What should we do for the rest of the night?” she asks.

“Huh?” Abbie asks.

“If you think I’m _not_ staying until I hear some footsteps, you’re mistaken,” Jenny explains. “What time again?”

“10:43,” Abbie answers. “That was the time he died, according to Grace’s and Reverend Knapp’s journals,” she elaborates, seeing her sister’s eyebrow rise.

“One more question, then we’ll order some pizza,” Jenny says.

“And _then_ you can help me peel more wallpaper,” Abbie adds. “If you’re hanging around, you’re working.”

“Fine. You said he knows what you’re doing here. That he can hear and see you,” Jenny starts.

“Yeah.”

“How _much_ does he see, exactly? I know I would feel a little… exposed… living in a house with a ghost watching me all the time. How do you know he’s not watching you change clothes? Or in the shower?”

Abbie sighs. “That thought occurred to me, but I haven’t been able to figure out a tactful way to ask him,” she admits. “I am choosing to believe that since he was a gentleman in life, he will continue to be one in death.”

Jenny’s eyebrow goes up again. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Abbie can almost see Crane sputtering in protest, but bites back her snort of laughter. _I’m going to hear about this tonight._ “Well, if he’s hearing this conversation, I’m sure I’ll get my answer soon enough. He has an amazing memory. I don’t know if it’s a dead guy thing or just _this_ guy, but he remembers everything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I…” she hesitates, then presses on, “I sometimes ask his opinion on things when I can’t make up my mind. I set three paint chips out on the table and asked him which one he preferred for the living room. When I saw him in my dream, he not only told me which one, but called it by its color name _and_ recited the little code on the sample.”

“That’s weird, Abbie. Just saying. No one asks a dead guy for decorating advice,” Jenny says.

 

xXx

 

Jenny helps Abbie work on the main bathroom upstairs, peeling wallpaper and scrubbing grout, breaking for pizza when it arrives. Then they stay up watching movies – and the clock – until about 10:30.

“Come on,” Abbie says, plucking her sister’s sleeve. “Hey. Stop texting Joe and come _on._ ”

Jenny puts her phone down. “He’s pouting, but he knows he can’t compete with you,” she replies with a grin. “Where are we going?”

“Upstairs. I don’t know if you’ll be able to hear him from down here,” Abbie answers. She turns off the television and the two sisters head upstairs.

“Are you staying over?” Abbie asks, opening a drawer.

Jenny thinks a moment before answering, “Mmm, not this time. I don’t want to interfere with whatever freaky overnight thing you got going on with your ghost man.”

Abbie puts her hands on her hips. “Seriously.”

“I have to be up at four tomorrow, and if I stay here, we’ll stay up till three,” she says. “We’ll do it soon. Like, properly. I’ll bring my jammies and we can give each other pedicures and facials and braid our hair and all that shit. Promise.”

“Sounds good,” Abbie agrees, smiling. She glances at the clock. “Almost time,” she says, scrambling onto the bed and sitting beside her sister.

“Are you sure he’ll do it if you’re like, not officially in bed?” Jenny asks, whispering now.

“Yes. He said he _has_ to,” Abbie explains. “‘I get restless at a certain time of night and must walk. I am afraid there is nothing for it,’ he said,” she adds, mimicking his accent.

“Ooo, that’s right, he has an accent,” Jenny says, looking genuinely interested. “Wait, you never told me what he looks li—”

“Shhh!” Abbie shushes, waving her hand.

The Mills sisters sit in silence, listening. A moment later, Captain Ichabod Crane’s polite footfalls can be heard carefully treading the hallway floorboards.

Tonight, however, he pauses. It sounds like he’s stopped right outside Abbie’s door. Her eyes widen and she looks at Jenny to see her sister’s face mirroring hers.

Then, he moves on, continuing to the Blue Room.

“Is that it?” Jenny asks, whispering again.

“Yes,” Abbie answers. “And I swear to God he has _never_ paused like that before.”

“That… was… _awesome!_ ” Jenny exclaims, jumping off of the bed. “Abbie! You have an honest-to-God _ghost_ living here!” She settles down a bit, then, in a calmer voice, says, “Those were definitely footsteps. Have you ever gone into the hallway while he’s walking?”

“No… I thought about it, but… it seemed like I’d be, I don’t know, intruding, or something,” Abbie answers.

“Abbie. He intrudes on your _dreams,_ ” Jenny points out.

Abbie never really thought about his visits as intrusions, but she keeps silent on that point. “I suppose you have a point,” she allows. “I don’t think I’d actually _see_ him or anything. He’d probably just walk right past.”

“Or stop for a second, like he did tonight,” Jenny suggests. She looks at the clock. “Shit. I gotta go if I’m going to get any sleep.” She gives her sister a quick hug, then heads for the door.

“Jen?” Abbie asks.

“Yeah?”  
“Can we—?”

Jenny gives her an understanding look. “Of course. I’m not going to go spreading your business all over town.” She pauses and sighs. “Especially _this_ kind of business. This city isn’t that big and there are plenty of people here who still remember Mama,” she adds. She doesn’t need to add that they don’t need the Good Citizens of Sleepy Hollow drawing parallels between them and their mother. Especially since there is already some gossip circulating about Abbie’s involuntary sabbatical.

“Thank you.”

 

xXx

 

_“Your eyes,” Crane says, gazing down into them as Abbie stares back, almost transfixed. “There was always something familiar about them.” Slowly, he reaches a hand up and gently strokes the skin beside her left eye with his thumb. “You have the same eyes as Mrs. Dixon.”_

_These eyes close at his touch, his cool hand making her feel strangely warm._

_“Truly, I am pleased beyond measure to learn that you – and your… exuberant sister – are descended from such a wonderful woman. It seems that the women in your family are predisposed to being beautiful and intelligent,” he says, dropping his hand._

_Abbie still isn’t accustomed to the praise Crane heaps on her. This is at least the third time he’s called her beautiful, not to mention the numerous other compliments with which he’s showered her._

_“And I promise you, Lieutenant – wait, I should call you ‘Agent’, should I not?” he asks, momentarily derailing his own train of thought._

_Abbie thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. She has come to like him calling her “Lieutenant”._

_“No? You prefer ‘Lieutenant’? You shall have to explain your logic in this choice when you are able, but I will respect your wishes,” he allows, inclining his head. “I must admit, it is quite novel addressing a lady thusly,” he adds with a wry smile. “Will you sit with me?” he asks, indicating a bench._

_A bench that was never there before. She nods and walks to sit with him._

_“As I was saying, I promise you I have never once cast my eyes where they were not welcomed,” he says, addressing the question Jenny raised. “And I appreciate you defending me to Miss Jenny. For I_ am _a gentleman, and…” he looks down, clearly embarrassed at what he is about to confess. “…though I admit I have been tempted, I will not damage the trust we have built by succumbing to such base desires. I would not take advantage of my spectral form in that way.”_

_Abbie is relieved to hear that she hasn’t been putting on an unwitting show for Crane, and is surprised at his admission of being tempted. She doesn’t quite know how to respond, but finds herself reaching out, hesitantly placing her hand over his. He looks down at it, surprised. She mistakes this for disapproval, and begins to move her hand away. He places his over hers, stilling it._

_“Your touch is… welcome,” he says. “It has been a very long time since I have felt the warmth of human contact.”_

_She looks at him, curious._

_“There was a little girl once. She lived here with her family. Her name was Sarah, and she was the family’s youngest child. She was the only one in the family who noticed me. Or, more accurately, did not ignore my presence in the house.”_

_Abbie nods, perfectly understanding how adults can turn a blind eye to things they do not understand or do not want to see._

_“I only visited her twice. It was a mistake to do so even once, but she was so… full of life. A bright child, quite precocious, but her family wound up thinking she had… problems. But she hugged me once.” He sighs, looking off into the distance. “It was lovely. The innocence of children…” He seems to remember himself again and lightly shakes his head. “I do feel a certain sense of guilt over the ordeal. The family wound up moving because of her ‘overactive imagination’. That was how they tactfully phrased it. They decided to return to their previous locale, fearing the relocation was the reason for the girl’s perceived mental state. In truth, it was my fault. I simply wanted someone to know I was here.”_

_Abbie squeezes his hand in sympathy. She can understand simply wanting to be acknowledged; that is how she spent a good portion of her youth. She makes a mental note to go into more detail about that during the day._

_Crane straightens his posture. “But enough of this sadness,” he declares. “I believe you were wanting my opinion on what you seem to refer to as ‘my’ room?” he asks, looking down at her over his collar, eyebrow raised._

_She nods, telling herself that the look he is giving her is definitely_ not _one of the sexiest things she’s seen._

_“If you would paint the room blue in honor of the home’s history, I would not object, but in truth… my favorite color is red,” he says._


	5. Chapter 5

_“Bram took my son back to England,” Crane says, repeating the discovery Abbie made earlier that day. He is pacing, his fingers flexing behind his back. “After all we fought for…_ he _was the main proponent for me to change sides. ‘We are on the wrong side, my friend,’ he said. ‘We should help these people, fight_ for _them, not against them.’ And then he returns to England after the fighting is over…” he sighs, shaking his head._

 _Abbie watches, mute and helpless, as he sorts his head out. She finds it interesting that he seems to keep it all in until he sees her, almost as if he needs someone to listen to him in order to process his feelings. Needs_ her _to listen to him._

_She also finds herself unsure if she would have liked Abraham Van Brunt had she known him. He seems unreliable at best._

_“And then he takes up with Mary Wells, of all people,” Crane continues. He snorts and adds, “First Katrina, then Mary. Apparently the man could not find a suitable wife who was not formerly connected to me.” He looks at Abbie. “Miss Wells and I were betrothed before I came to this country. I broke off our engagement just before I left because my departure would not be fair to her. I did not wish to… prevent her from living her life whilst she awaited my return. Father was not pleased, but Mother understood. Mother always understood me better,” he says. He walks over to Abbie. “I did not love her. It would have been a marriage in name only, more of a business deal,” he explains, reaching for her hand. “I was fond of her, of course; we were childhood friends. Perhaps I could have one day grown to love her, but…” he pauses, shaking his head as he contemplates Abbie’s tiny hand in his. “But I felt no passion, no spark,” he quietly says, his thumb stroking the back of her hand._

_Abbie looks at their joined hands, wondering if she is correctly interpreting what he_ isn’t _saying and refusing to face the insanity of how it makes her feel._

_“In truth, it sets my heart at rest to know that my son was raised by Mary. She was a good woman and would have treated him well. I would like to think that Bram told her Jeremy was mine and that she would honor my memory by raising my son as her own.” He sits on the bench, gently tugging Abbie with to sit beside him._

_Abbie had learned that Jeremy Crane Van Brunt – that was the name she found; his original middle name appears to have been eliminated – grew to be a successful scientist, earning his doctorate in botany, but never married and had no children. Abraham and Mary had another child, a daughter, that they named Elizabeth._

_“It is a shame he is the end of my line… I would have liked to know that I had at least one descendent out in the world today,” he says with a sigh. “No matter,” he decides. He looks at Abbie’s upturned face. “I had no siblings,” he says, answering the question he sees there. “My mother was over 30 years of age when she finally conceived. I do not know if that is still considered an advanced age to bear children—” He pauses as Abbie shrugs and waggles her hand, palm down. “Ah. Not really, I take it. But in my time, it was… rather elderly. She also had a difficult pregnancy and delivery.”_

_Abbie opens her mouth in a silent “Oh” of understanding._

_Crane chuckles. “Yes, it does explain my… unfortunate name. It was also my grandfather’s name. Most of my companions simply addressed me by my surname, as I have noticed you do, Miss Mills.”_

_She smiles and looks down, a little surprised to see that she is holding his hand between both of hers. She doesn’t remember moving her other hand over._

_“Perhaps it is a habit retained from your line of work?” he asks, lifting her chin with his free hand._

_She nods, hoping he doesn’t mind. She hasn’t even realized that she calls him ‘Crane’ most of the time._

_He gives her a soft smile and says, “I will say I prefer it to the epithet your sister has chosen to call me. You will have to tell her she is fortunate I am deceased or she would have to suffer the consequences.” His smile widens, and Abbie feels her cheeks automatically pulling into an answering grin. She did tell Jenny that she didn’t think Crane would appreciate being called “Ichy”, but the younger Mills sister merely waved her off with an “I do what I want.”_

_“Lieutenant, I must thank you once again,” Crane says, turning serious again. “It means worlds to me that you have taken so much of your precious time – time you would likely prefer to spend restoring the house – to do research for me.” He sighs. “Would that I had a way to repay you for your honesty, kindness, and time.”_

_Abbie lifts her hand and touches his cheek, enjoying the bristly feel of his beard under her skin. He turns his head and kisses her palm, cupping his much larger hand over hers. She doesn’t want him to feel beholden to her or have any sense of obligation. All she wants is to continue to see him, even if it is only when she is asleep._

_“Abbie, I…” he starts, his fingers wrapping around hers and pulling it to his lips again to kiss her knuckles. She waits, wondering what he wishes to tell her. Then, he seems to deflate and says, “I am very much enjoying this ‘jazz’ music you have been playing for me,” he blurts, a little too fast to be what he was originally planning on saying. “Mr. Armstrong’s music is very pleasurable, and Miss Holiday would have brought me to tears, could I shed them.” He kisses her hand again and says, “But I still like_ your _singing best of all.”_

 

xXx

 

“…Wonderful music… Faint as a will o’ the wisp, Crazy as a loon—” Abbie’s singing is cut off by her phone ringing. She pauses Ella Fitzgerald and answers her sister’s call.

“Hey,” she says, setting down her paintbrush.

“Are you super busy right now?” Jenny asks.

“Almost done painting the bathroom. Why, what’s up?”

“Joe and I want to stop over. We have a… surprise for you,” she says.

Abbie hears chuckling and murmuring in the background, and her eyes narrow. “Jenny…”

“It’s a good surprise,” Jenny insists. Abbie just sighs, and Jenny adds, “We’re already parked outside, so you may as well come let us in. I only called first because I didn’t want to interrupt anything like last week.”

“Fine,” Abbie relents and disconnects the call. She quickly wraps her paint roller in an old Wal-mart bag and heads downstairs. “Crane, my man, I don’t know what my ‘exuberant’ sister has up her sleeve this time, but I’m going to pre-emptively apologize, just in case,” she says as she walks to the door.

When she opens it, she sees not only Jenny and Joe, but also their friend Big Ash and an older man from his tribe that Abbie has seen but never met.

“Hey Ash, how are you?” Abbie greets, stepping aside to let them in. She reaches out and scratches Ash’s dog, Aya, behind her oversized chihuahua ears.

“Can’t complain,” he answers. “Nice house.”

“Thanks,” she answers, briefly hugging Joe before turning to Jenny, waiting for an explanation as to why she brought two Shawnee tribesmen to her house.

“This is Frank Gage,” Jenny introduces the older man. “He’s a shaman.”

The lightbulb goes on, and Abbie slowly nods. “Ah.” She gives Jenny a brief _look,_ then turns to greet the shaman. “Nice to meet you,” she says with a smile. “I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced.”

Frank warmly shakes her hand. “It is an honor, Agent Mills. August Corbin spoke highly of you and your sister. He was a friend and I held him in great esteem,” he says.

“Thank you,” Abbie says, now remembering briefly seeing Frank at Corbin’s funeral.

“I, um, told them about your ghost,” Jenny admits. “But _only_ them. Well, and Joe, obviously.”

Abbie looks at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. This is exactly what she suspected as soon as Jenny introduced Frank. “Okay,” she says. “So… at the risk of sounding rude, why, exactly, have you brought them here?”

“You want information about this guy, right? I thought Frank could help. He can… what was the word? _Commune_ with spirits,” Jenny explains.

 _I can commune with this spirit just fine on my own,_ Abbie thinks, but merely nods and says, “All right.”

“I can sense something already,” Frank says. They are still standing in the foyer. “Or, rather, someone. Just one soul.”

“Abbie, take him up to the room,” Jenny says.

“Room?” Ash asks.

“This way,” Abbie replies, leading them up the stairs. “According to my reading, he died in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Will that be a good place?” she asks Frank.

“Perfect,” Frank answers.

“Do you need anything?” she asks him once they reach the room, which is mostly empty.

“No thank you,” he responds. “May I?” he asks.

“Please,” Abbie says. “Can I follow?”

“Of course. Secrets are not what I am about,” he answers, moving to sit cross-legged in the center of the room. The other three hover around the edges, watching. After a few minutes, he opens his eyes and says, “He is a benevolent spirit. I can say that with certainty.”

“So can I,” Abbie mutters. Jenny shushes her, but she ignores it, pressing on. “His name is Captain Ichabod Crane. He was an Englishman who wound up fighting for the American side in the Revolutionary War as a spy for George Washington.” They stare at her. “What? I’ve been doing research,” she answers.

“He sustained an injury during battle,” Frank says.

Abbie nods. “Slash to the chest on the battlefield. He was brought here, and died later that night,” she answers.

“Yes.” Frank closes his eyes again. After a moment, he nods, then stands. “Your Captain Crane must have a reason for remaining in this place,” he says. “If you like, I can perform a ceremony to encourage him to move on,” he offers.

“No!” Abbie answers, a little too quickly. “I mean, no, that’s all right. I… I don’t mind him being here.” Jenny raises an eyebrow at her sister, and Abbie continues. “I talk to him sometimes. When I’m working.” She looks at the floor, then turns towards Frank. “I think he looks out for me. Is that weird?”

Frank tilts his head then says, “No, not at all. He is a benevolent spirit, I have no doubt about that.” He peers at Abbie, seeming to read her thoughts. “What happened, child?” he asks. Abbie tells him about how she woke up out of a dead sleep to find someone trying to break in.

“Very interesting. But I cannot say I am surprised. It is very clear that he means no one any harm. He only wishes to be—”

“Acknowledged,” Abbie finishes.

Frank looks at her, surprised. “You know this?” he asks.

Abbie nods. “Let’s… go downstairs. You guys want some coffee or something?” she asks.

 

xXx

 

“What do you mean, he visits your dreams?” Frank asks, flabbergasted.

“Is that not normal ghost behavior?” Abbie replies, setting her cup down. She absently feeds the last bite of her shortbread cookie to Aya, who has been happily sniffing around the living room like she owns the place.

“Well, it depends on what happens during these dreams,” he says.

“We talk,” she says. “He told me all about himself, what he did, how he died, his wife…” she pauses, thinking. “He asks me questions. I can’t answer them, so I talk to him during the day. It’s a little strange. We have these… one-sided conversations, mine during the day, his at night—”

Frank holds up his hand. “So you actually _interact_ with him,” he says. She nods, and he asks, “Does he ever repeat himself? Tell you the same stories over and over?”

“No, never. He is remarkably coherent. Remembers everything I tell him.”

“This is definitely _not_ normal ghostly behavior,” Frank says. “Most ghosts operate in a loop. Your description of his nightly walks in the hallway – _that_ is normal behavior. Carrying on conversations, _coherent_ conversations, is not.” He shakes his head and sets his tea down. “In your dreams, he behaves as though he is alive, yes?”

“Yes,” Abbie answers. “Sometimes… sometimes I forget he’s dead.”

Frank looks her directly in the eyes. There is a pregnant pause before he says, “I don’t think he _is_ dead.”

“What?” A chorus of voices replies.

“I don’t think he actually is dead. He’s still alive, but he’s caught in an… in-between,” he answers. “Tell me, Abbie. Has he touched you, in your dream?”

“Yes,” Abbie answers, barely a whisper.

“Abbie, what the hell?” Jenny exclaims.

“He touched my hand… kissed it once, out of gratitude,” she answers. He’s kissed it more than once, but she doesn’t elaborate.

“Gratitude?”

“I was honest with him when most of the people in his life had not been,” she explains.

“Fair enough. You do not need to elaborate further,” Frank answers with a nod.

“The hell she doesn’t! I want to know!” Jenny says.

“You already know,” Abbie replies, turning towards her sister. “It was the stuff about his wife being a witch and not telling him she was knocked up when he died.”

“Oh, that,” Jenny nods. “Got it.”

Abbie rolls her eyes and turns back to Frank.

“His wife was a witch?” Frank asks.

“Well, she was burned at the stake for practicing witchcraft, but there’s no real evidence as to whether or not she was truly a witch. You know a lot of those executions were bullshit,” Abbie says.

“True, but not all,” he answers. “But if he is not truly dead, it may be evidence to support that accusation.”

“According to the journal I read, Katrina – his wife – was barely able to function when he was brought in,” she says.

“Show me this journal.”

 

xXx

 

Jenny, Joe, and Ash go on a lunch run for sub sandwiches while Frank devours all the information that Abbie has about Crane.

“I want to think that it is not a coincidence that you and Jenny are direct descendants of Mrs. Dixon,” Frank comments. Abbie had left to finish painting the bathroom while he read, and returned to find the shaman studying the family tree.

“Really?” Abbie asks.

“Oh, Fate is definitely a thing,” he replies. “Yes, we have free will, but sometimes our decisions are guided.”

“I get that,” she agrees. “Any theories yet?”

“Benjamin Franklin,” he says, setting the chart aside. He picks up Reverend Knapp’s journal. “There is no record of a funeral or burial in the Reverend’s journal, and Mrs. Dixon reports that _Franklin_ dealt with the body.”

“And?” Abbie prompts, sitting.

“As the kids would say, Franklin was into some freaky shit,” he answers. “He conducted a ridiculously wide array of experiments. Far more than are common knowledge.”

“So… you think _Franklin_ might be responsible for Crane’s ‘mostly dead’ state?” she asks.

“I think it is quite likely, yes; much more likely than Katrina’s involvement,” he says with a nod. “I have a few books about him, and I distinctly remember reading that he did some experiments with… dead bodies.”

“Frankenstein, hey?” she asks, chuckling. Her laughter fades quickly when Frank doesn’t so much as crack a smile. “Oh, shit. Really?”

“Yes. So, logic would dictate that if he was playing God enough to endeavor to reanimate dead tissue, then it would seem very plausible that he would try to find a way to… suspend death as well,” he says.

“And Crane was one of those experiments,” she concludes. She exhales heavily. “He’s not going to be too happy about that. From what he’s told me, he and Franklin had a somewhat… difficult relationship.”

Frank’s brow furrows. “Then why would Franklin try to keep him alive?”

“Because Crane matched his intellect. They respected one another immensely, but each was threatened by the intelligence of the other, and they both had… very healthy egos,” Abbie says. “Sorry, Crane, but you know it’s true,” she says to the ceiling.

“Pride is a cruel mistress,” Frank says, finally allowing a small chuckle.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she agrees.

“Ah, yes, I suppose I don’t, _Agent_ Mills,” he allows. “Now. Important question time.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you _want_ to try to bring him back?”

Abbie opens her mouth to immediately answer “yes”, but closes it just as quickly. _Do I want to? Does_ he _want to come back? It would be complicated once we get him here. We would have to get forged paperwork… which Hawley could totally handle… not to mention the whole 200-plus years of culture shock…_ She sighs, closes her eyes, and whispers, “Yes.”

Frank nods once, his face solemn. He pulls his wallet out and withdraws a card, which he then hands to Abbie. “Call my nephew, Seamus. He will be able to help you.”

Abbie looks at the card, which is from Geronimotors Used Cars. “Seamus Duncan?” she asks, eyebrows rising. She’s bought more than one car from him and knows he’s a good guy, but…

“We have to pay the bills somehow, don’t we?” Frank asks. “He is an expert on the Dream Realm. If anyone can help you, it’s him.”

“Thank you,” she says just as she hears Jenny’s truck outside. “Took them long enough,” she mutters.

“Talk to Captain Crane tonight. See if he has any insight on Franklin’s activities,” he advises.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have a word or two to say on the matter,” she wryly replies.

 

xXx

 

Abbie stands in her bedroom, contemplating. Jenny’s suggestion that she go out into the hallway while Crane makes his walk is still rattling around in her head. It has been four days and she still hasn’t done it. Crane hasn’t mentioned it, either, to let her know if he is for or against such a thing.

However, the events of the day have given her the little push she needed. “Well, I guess I’ll find out,” she says, deciding. She glances at the clock, then walks into the hall, standing between her room and the Blue Room.

Waiting.

The footsteps sound right on time, and Abbie realizes she can see him in her mind’s eye as he walks. She’s seen him enough in her dreams that she knows how he moves, knows that his hands are likely clasped behind his back, head slightly bowed in thought, a few tendrils of wavy brown hair framing his handsome face, maybe sticking to his beard a bit.

The sound of his footfalls stops right before her.

“Hi,” she dumbly says. “See you later, I hope.”

She waits, and the floorboards creak. Then, she feels a curious cold sensation pass over her, moving from front to back, as he slowly walks _through_ her.

Abbie holds her breath. The cold lingers for a few seconds, causing goosebumps to stand out on her arms, which is not surprising, but what she does not expect was for the coldness to feel curiously… _hot_ in certain places. Her nipples are standing out against the thin material of her tank top, but not from cold, and she feels a slight throbbing between her legs.

He is behind her now, moving on to his room.

She exhales heavily, not realizing she had been holding her breath.

“Whoa,” she says, her voice shaky.

Her legs are also shaky as she walks into her room, climbs into bed, and shuts the light off. She turns onto her side and goes to sleep without even turning the television on.

 _Tries_ to go to sleep, but the ache between her legs is not abating any. Thinking about him and the fact that he might be alive does not help ease it at all. In fact, it increases it. She finally growls in frustration, then flips on her back and allows her hand to slide down into her shorts.

It’s not until after she finishes that she realizes she doesn’t care if Crane was watching.


	6. Chapter 6

_“I might be alive?” Crane asks. Abbie isn’t sure if he knows what she did before she fell asleep and is being a gentleman or if he truly is unaware of her little self-dalliance._

_Not that she can ask, even if she_ would _ask._

_Then, he looks at her. “It would stand to reason, actually. Everything your Shawnee shaman said made perfect sense. We should not be able to interact like… this,” he says, lifting his hand and cupping her cheek. He takes a moment to adoringly gaze at her, then shakes his head in that way he has when he needs to clear out some cobwebs._

_Abbie swallows, now really wondering if he knows._

_“Franklin dabbled in all manner of… devilry. Called it science, but a lot of it was poppycock. Alchemy. Phrenology. Channeling spirits. Looking for proof of mythical beasts and the like.” He pauses his pacing. “Reanimation of dead matter.” He turns towards her. “As Mr. Gage said, logic would dictate Franklin would also attempt to cheat death. And what better test subject than a gravely wounded soldier?”_

_She nods, making a mental note to have him read_ Frankenstein _when – if – she is able to bring him back, figuring he might find it interesting._

_“Sit with me, please. Your presence is very soothing,” he requests, leading her towards the bench. They sit and he takes her hand between both of his. “Your hands are so tiny, yet so strong and skilled,” he comments, lifting it to his lips. “I need to think,” he says, still pondering her hand in his._

_Abbie unreservedly watches him, absorbed in his own thoughts. He is quite attractive when he is thinking, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed. She knows his fingers would be twitching and flexing if they weren’t occupied holding her hand._

_Crane suddenly looks up and catches her staring. She doesn’t look away; she’s not embarrassed at being caught. She reaches up with her free hand and runs her fingers over his troubled brow._

_The tension eases out of his face as he catches her palm and kisses it. “Ah! Journals!” he exclaims. “Why did I not think of it earlier? Franklin, being as self-important as he is… er, was… kept extensive logs of his research. Books filled with information that he wished to preserve for posterity.” He sees the look on her face and asks, “What do you find amusing, my treasure?”_

Treasure? That’s new. _She raises her eyebrows at him, then pokes him in the chest._

_“All right, yes, I will admit I, too, kept journals of my research and experiences,” he confesses. “But my field of expertise is history, as you know, not science. So_ my _journals would have historical merit because I was fighting a war. Not only that, my writings come from the unique perspective of a man who has changed sides—”_

_His words are cut off by Abbie’s fingers covering his lips while she silently laughs at him._

_He kisses her fingertips, then sighs. “Yes, I understand, Lieutenant. Glass houses and all that,” he allows, looking a bit contrite. “As I was saying before I got off course, I am certain one of Franklin’s journals is the key to unraveling this mystery.”_

_She lifts a hand, palm up, and shrugs._ Franklin must have hundreds of journals, and I’m supposed to find the one that explains how to revive my mostly-dead definitely-not boyfriend?

_“Franklin was eccentric, but he was, it pains me to say, brilliantly pragmatic when it suited his purposes. If truly intended to… resurrect me… he would have kept the information close.” He looks away, off into the trees. “I do realize that is not very helpful. I need more time to think. My memory is flawless, you see – I possess an eidetic memory – but I am finding that my memories of my actual life are… more difficult to recall. For example, I could recite back everything Mr. Gage said today, but trying to recall every detail of my interactions with Franklin takes more time. Please forgive me.”_

_Abbie nods, then furrows her brow, trying to find a way to ask him what he thinks about what Frank said about her calling Seamus._

_Crane still seems to be able to read her mind. “I, too, am curious about this ‘Dream Realm’ and what it holds for us,” he quietly says. “You will be calling Mr. Duncan tomorrow?”_

_She nods._

_“Good.” He looks around. “It is almost time for you to wake,” he says, standing and pulling her to her feet with him. He looks down at her for a moment, then says, “You surprised me in the corridor, Lieutenant.” He releases her hand and takes a step away, as though he needs some distance to speak his thoughts. “I recall Miss Jenny mentioning doing such a thing, but I thought you had forgotten.” He turns back to face her and says, “I could have walked around you. I chose not to do so.”_

_She blinks, puzzled._

_He moves closer again and tells her in a low voice, “I_ chose _to share my spirit with you that way. To temporarily share the same space as you, even for just a moment, was an opportunity I would not squander.”_

_He makes it sound like a seduction, and she bites her lower lip._

_“You felt it, too,” he whispers, and she nods. It felt extremely intimate. Their souls mingling, sharing the same space. He steps in front of her and places his hands on her shoulders. “I look forward to meeting you in this ‘Dream Realm’,” he says, then places a gentle kiss on her forehead._

Abbie can still feel the kiss when she wakes up.

 

xXx

 

“Hey, Seamus, this is Abbie Mills calling,” Abbie says the next day. She waited until after nine to call him, distracting herself by painting the Blue Room. She decided to go with a pale taupe for the walls and accessorize with red accents.

In case he wants to use the room when he gets here.

If he wants to stay here with her.

If she can revive him.

“Hi, Abbie,” Seamus answers. “You didn’t waste any time.”

“So Frank talked to you?” she asks.

“Yeah, he called me last night. You need to go to the Dream Realm, from what I understand.”

“I guess so. Is it… is it dangerous?” she asks.

“Less dangerous than your job,” he answers. “Well, for your purposes, anyway. You’re just going to talk to someone.”

“Okay, that wasn’t cryptic at all,” she says.

He chuckles. “It _could_ be dangerous, but what you want to do isn’t,” he clarifies.

“Oh. All right then,” she replies. There is a brief, awkward silence, and she asks, “When can we do this?”

“Sunday at noon. Can you wait that long?” he asks.

_Today is Friday. That will give me a couple days to start looking for Franklin’s journals._ “Sure. Where?”

“Uncle Frank said your… guy died in a room in your house,” Seamus answers. “Or, didn’t quite die, more accurately.”

“Yes,” Abbie replies. “Here, then?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring my supplies,” he says.

“Do you need directions?” she asks.

“Nope, I’m familiar with the property,” he answers.

_That’s interesting._ “Please let me know if you need anything,” she says.

“Will do. See you Sunday.”

“Great. Thanks a lot, Seamus.”

“Anytime, Abbie.”

She disconnects the call and addresses the empty room. “Noon on Sunday, Crane. Here. I expect you to be waiting for me.”

 

xXx

 

Seamus Duncan knocks on Abbie’s door at 11:59 a.m. She opens the door almost immediately, having been watching for him for the past ten minutes.

“Hi, Seamus,” she greets, stepping aside to let him in.

“Nice to see you, Abbie,” he replies. He is carrying a large wooden case. “You ready for this?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she answers. In truth, she has been restless with excitement all morning. It doesn’t help that she hasn’t seen Crane since Thursday night. She’s not entirely surprised, guessing that he probably had to save up his energy for today. “This way,” she says, heading for the stairs.

“The house looks really great,” Seamus observes as they walk through. “The last time I was here it was a complete mess.”

“When was that?” Abbie asks, curious.

“Last year. My sister and I came out to the woods looking for some plants she needed, and came across the house from the opposite side,” he says, pointing towards the back yard. “It was empty at the time.”

“Yeah, my realtor said it had been empty for over a year,” she confirms. “Did you do any exploring?”

“A little,” he admits. “It was locked, so there wasn’t much we could do except peek into the windows.”

Abbie nods, a bit thankful they weren’t able to come in and poke around, especially since Seamus has a Unique Skill Set. _And who knows what his sister can do; clearly their family is gifted._

“This is the room,” Seamus declares. He looks at her and explains, “The energy is different.”

“Ah,” she dumbly replies, walking in. The room is fairly empty; just some painting supplies and her old college futon, which is draped with a drop cloth.

“Can we use that?” he asks, pointing at it.

“Um, sure,” she answers, pulling the cloth from the futon. “I take it I need to… lie down?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, opening his case. It is filled with various bottles and containers; nothing Abbie can readily identify.

“Is there anything else you need me to do?” she asks, beginning to feel anxious and awkward in her own house.

He looks up at her, a glass container filled with a green liquid in his hand. “You showered this morning?”

She blinks at the strange question. “Yes.”

“Good,” he nods. “It works better if you have cleansed your body of the previous day’s… residue,” he explains. “Do you have a watch?” he asks, noting her bare wrists.

“Yeah, let me get it,” she says, jogging over to her room, grabs her watch, and puts it on as she walks back.

Seamus is pouring the green liquid into a cup when she returns. He hands it to her. “Drink this. You might want to sit down first. You’ll have 30 minutes after you drink.”

“Okay,” she says, sitting on the futon, which is already opened up flat. “May I ask what it is?” she inquires, looking at the green liquid.

“Nothing illegal,” he answers. “It’s a special kind of tea, made from remarkably common ingredients.” He glances at his watch. “Bottoms up. Remember: 30 minutes.”

“Right,” she says, and obediently drinks. It isn’t bad, but it makes her lips tingle a bit. As soon as she sets the cup down, her head swims a bit. “Whoa.”

“Lie down,” he instructs.

“Should I be wearing shoes?” she absently asks, already feeling drowsy.

“A bit late to think of that, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be fine,” he says. Then, he pulls a jar containing a scorpion out of his box.

“What are you going to do with _that_?” she asks, suddenly fighting the drowsiness. She tries to sit up and only manages to get to her elbows.

“Exactly what you think I’m going to do with it,” he calmly answers. “Relax, it isn’t deadly and only feels like a pinprick. I do need your stomach though.”

“Uh, okay,” she answers, lying back and flipping the bottom of her tank top up a bit to expose her stomach. _Nothing for it now anyway._

Seamus unscrews the lid of the jar and turns it upside down on Abbie’s stomach, trapping the scorpion under it. He begins chanting in a soothing drone while tapping on the jar.

The scorpion stings her.

The next thing Abbie knows, she is standing in the Blue Room, which is now empty. The air is also significantly cooler. She blinks, slightly bewildered, trying to get her bearings. She notices that the walls are a soft blue that is somewhere between slate and teal. She distractedly notes that she likes the color a great deal and thinks it might look good in the downstairs bathroom.

“Lieutenant.”

Crane’s voice behind her snaps her out of her daze, and she whirls around to see him standing there. She gasps.

His jaw similarly drops as they stand there and stare at one another.

She didn’t realize that the Ichabod Crane she has been seeing in her dreams was… like looking at an old color photograph or an old movie, where the colors are have faded from their true brilliance. Now she can see his shirt is not gray, but sage green. And his eyes… they are such an intense blue that it almost hurts.

“Oh, Abbie…” he finally manages, clearly experiencing the same realization. “Your beauty has… stolen my words,” he whispers, devouring her with his eyes.

His voice jolts her into motion, and she launches herself into his arms, hugging him with a fierceness that frightens her a little.

But he is holding her just as tightly, and when he tucks his face into her neck she notices he is _warm._ And when it sinks in that her feet are no longer on the floor, she can feel the surprising strength contained in his whipcord-lean body.

All she can do is hold tighter and soak him in. Because she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get this opportunity again. She wants to remember the feel of his warm body against hers, the smell of his hair, the shift of his muscles beneath his clothes. The undeniably enticing virility of him.

“Ichabod,” she says, choosing to use his first name. “Oh, my God, you’re really here.”

“I could say the same of you, Miss Mills,” he replies, gradually easing his hold on her.

She slides down his body in a very distracting manner until she lands on her feet, standing in front of him.

“Seeing you like this, in all your breathtakingly vibrant glory…” he starts again, overwhelmed. “If I was a poet, I would write sonnets about nothing but your eyes.” He looks over the rest of her, simply clad in a pair of shorts and a tank top, and says, “But you are poetry itself, my treasure.”

“Damn,” she breathes, as warmth floods through her. _He has got some game._ She absentmindedly licks her lips. She sees his gaze flicker there and darken, and she is glad he cannot see how hotly she is blushing.

“Forgive me for my bold words,” he says, misinterpreting her expletive. He takes a step back.

“You haven’t offended me,” she assures him, closing the distance between them again. She reaches out and takes his hand. “I promise. Just the opposite, in fact. That was an expression of… awe, I guess. Like, ‘Damn, man, you have got game.’”

His eyebrow arches. “Game?” he repeats.

“You really know how to woo a lady,” she explains, trying unsuccessfully not to grin.

“Ah. I am not sure I agree with that sentiment, but… perhaps it is just your presence that brings out the best in me,” he confesses.

She laughs and shakes her head. Then she remembers. “I only have 30 minutes.”

“Yes. I heard,” he says with a nod. “You have also had no luck locating the correct tome.”

She nods, shoulders slumping a bit. “I found a few books and a _lot_ of things online, but nothing that can help me,” she says. Early on, she spent the better part of two days explaining her computer, phone, and iPod to him (she even showed him some silly cat videos, which he admitted to enjoying very much), so she doesn’t need to elaborate on what she means by “online”.

“I’ve been spending my time thinking. Remembering. Going over my interactions with Franklin,” he tells her.

“Please tell me you’ve come up with something,” she says.

“The journal may be with me. With my… body,” he replies.

“And where is that?” she asks.

He looks around the room. “I wonder if I can show you,” he ponders, going to the door. He tries the knob and finds the door stuck fast. “Apparently not.”

“I think we’re trapped in here for the short time I have,” she says. “And even if we could leave, we might not have had time to get back here if we went out traipsing around in the woods.”

His eyebrows lift. “So you know I am in the woods,” he says, smiling.

“Call it a hunch,” she replies.

“The clearing where we meet,” he says.

“With those weird white trees.”

“I am certain my… body… is there somewhere. I do not think he would have taken the time to bury me if his intent was to bring me back.”

“There are some small caves and hidden grottos out there,” Abbie suggests. “Jenny is more familiar with the woods than I am.”

“Then by all means, bring her. You may need assistance, and Miss Jenny appears to be very capable,” Crane replies.

“She totally is that,” she agrees. “I think you’ll really like her… once you get used to her.”

“Yes, well, my main fear is that _she_ will not like _me,_ ” he confesses. “As she is your only family, her opinion is of great import. Provided I get the opportunity to meet her, of course.”

“Not of great an import as you might think,” she counters. “I don’t need her approval for… anything. I mean, yeah, it helps, but I’m older anyway… not that it matters much these days…” she pauses, shrugging. “She already likes you anyway, so don’t worry.”

“How can she already…?” He shakes his head. “Not important right now.”

“If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t be helping me,” she explains anyway.

“One day you will have to explain the complicated relationship you have with your sister,” he says.

“That’s right, you’re an only child,” she responds, chuckling at him.

“Quite.”

“Is this what this room looked like in the 1780s?” she asks, redirecting. She looks around the room, and except for the wall color and some really ugly curtains, there are only a few differences from how it currently looks.

“Well, it had furniture, but yes,” he answers. “This was the largest guest room. Mr. Fredericks had no children and was never married, so all of the bedrooms were guest rooms, save the master.”

“Yeah, I read that he was a bachelor. Was that by choice, or…?”

“He was simply not interested in romance and the only carnal desire he seemed to have was for the occasional cognac,” Crane plainly states. “And he did not wish to trap some poor woman into a sham marriage.”

“That wasn’t in any books I read,” Abbie replies. “You really ran with a progressive crowd, Crane.”

“Most of my acquaintances were very forward-thinking, yes,” he agrees. He begins pacing again, like Sherlock Holmes with the game very much afoot. “But time is of the essence, my dear. We need to find this book.” He stops pacing and looks at her. “You have not found anything in the house, have you?”

She shakes her head no. “I hadn’t even thought about that actually,” she admits.

He frowns. “Look for hidden spaces. I know there are some, and hopefully they haven’t been sealed. Occasionally Mr. Fredericks needed to hide escaping slaves inside the house out of necessity, if there wasn’t time to get them to the carriage house,” he explains. “Secret crawlspaces were designed into the house for just such a need. I only hope that renovations haven’t eliminated them all.”

“I’ll start poking around. And I hope it’s not _in_ the hidden room under the carriage house,” she says. “Because that’s not exactly accessible.”

“I do not think he would put it there. As I said, it would be someplace convenient to him. And likely not in his own home.”

“Why not? I mean, that’s good, because the only house of his that still stands is in London, but why wouldn’t he keep it at home?”

“Because I am _here_ ,” he answers. “Or, very near here. Franklin was also notorious for leaving things every place he so much as took a crap, as you once so quaintly put it. He held me in professional high regard but personal disdain, yet he still kept a spare set of clothing in my house because we hosted him there overnight _once_.”

“Okay then. Liked to travel light,” she says, mildly amused. _Franklin was a trip._

“Indeed,” he agrees, pausing to ponder a small cupboard set into the wall. His fingers pass over the knob briefly, then he turns back to her.

“We’re almost out of time,” she says. They have just over ten minutes, according to her watch.

He nods. “Miss Mills, before you leave… I wish for you to have this,” he says, drawing something out of his pocket. He walks to her and holds his hand out.

It is a necklace, its pendant a deep blue sapphire the size of a nickel. “Oh, no… I can’t… that’s got to be worth a fortune,” she says.

“Please. It is doing no one any good sitting in my pocket,” he insists. “I would like for you to keep it… if for some reason you are unsuccessful in rousing me. Then you will at least have something of me to keep… to hold…” he adds, trailing off.

Abbie presses her lips together, touched beyond measure, but still reluctant to take the necklace. “I’ll still see you in my dreams,” she says. “Won’t I?”

“In truth, I do not know for certain. I have never interacted with someone as much – or for as long – as I have with you. I do not know if there are… limits. There is also the possibility that even if we do find the correct text, it won’t work,” he answers.

“Shoot, I never even thought about that. I forgot this is only an experiment of his,” she replies.

“Indeed,” he agrees, frowning. Then he looks down at the jewelry resting on his palm. “This was my mother’s,” he informs.

“No,” she whispers, though she is glad it wasn’t Katrina’s. “I… I can’t take your family heirloom.”

“My family is all gone. You are all I have, Abbie,” he quietly replies.

Overcome and out of words, she takes a swaying step forward and wraps her arms around him. He is reassuringly solid and warm. Real. _Alive_.

His arms immediately encircle her in a gentle but firm embrace. She presses her cheek against his chest and gasps when she hears his heart beating under her ear. His hand comes up to cup the back of her head, and soft pressure on her crown tells her he has very likely dropped a gentle kiss there.

“I’ll find you. I’ll find the book and I’ll find you,” she says, the necklace all but forgotten.

“If anyone can, I am certain it is you, Lieutenant,” he answers.

She looks up at him, heedless of her eyes shining with tears. Their eyes lock for a long moment, and they move simultaneously, each reaching for the other.

His lips are warm against hers, a sharp contrast to the chill of this place. She sighs, and he swallows the small whimper when her lips part under his, encouraging him to deepen the kiss.

He needs no further prompting, locking his arms around her and kissing her like a man who has not been kissed in over 200 years. He groans low in the back of his throat, a sound that resonates through her body and makes her press against him.

“Abbie,” he murmurs between kisses, his hands boldly traversing her body, familiarizing himself with her curves, even cupping her rear and squeezing at one point.

He is much bolder and more ardent than she would have thought her reserved Englishman to be, and it’s making her head spin. She allows herself to do a little exploring as well, moving her hands over his chest and up into his hair, dislodging the tie holding it back. She tugs it free and delves her fingers into his long tresses, lightly pulling them in a way that draws another groan from him.

She feels the hardwood of the floor beneath her back but doesn’t bother to wonder how they got there. “Oh,” she gasps, adjusting under him until they are comfortably entwined. “Mmm,” she hums when his lips move to her neck. His hand ghosts over her breast and she arches her back, wantonly pressing it against his palm. He keeps it there, gently kneading and caressing.

“These damnable _scraps of cloth_ you wear that you consider garments,” he mumbles, still kissing her, lifting his hand briefly to pluck at the strap of her top. “So much skin… driving me mad… scandalous… delectable…” He slides his hand down her shoulder and arm, then back up to her breast.

“Do you always talk this much?” she asks, winding her leg around his.

“Possibly,” he answers, and she laughs.

He lifts his head. “You have a delightful laugh,” he says, then claims her lips again. He shifts slightly and she feels his length press against her thigh.

She moans, knowing they don’t have enough time to actually _do_ anything. She moves her hand, thinking she’ll reach down and… but then she catches sight of her watch. “Crane… Ichabod,” she says, cupping his face and gently stilling him. “Time is almost up.” She pecks his lips, but he has other ideas, kissing her quite soundly.

“Bloody hell,” he replies, dropping his forehead against hers. He moves away from her, then helps her to her feet, holding her hands in his. “Abbie, before you go… I—”

She puts her fingers over his lips again. “No… don’t say it,” she says, fairly certain about what he wanted to say. “Tell me when you wake up,” she whispers. _If you wake up. It would be too painful to hear now if it doesn’t work._

He nods, kissing her fingertips. “I will.”

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she is alone and rather pent up, lying on the futon.

There is a soft knock on the door. “Abbie?” Seamus’ voice is muffled, but clear.

“Yeah,” she answers, sitting up. “Come in.”

He opens the door. “I take it it worked?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” she answers. “It was… amazing.” _Crane was amazing._ She stands, and suddenly notices she still has the tie from Crane’s hair clutched in her hand. “Hey, how familiar are you with the woods?” she asks, watching him close up his case.

“Fairly, why?”

“I’m supposed to find a clearing. A particular one. With four weird, white trees on one side,” she says.

Seamus lifts his case and looks at her. “That is an… important place. Not exactly sacred, but definitely meaningful.”

“That is where my friend is,” she says.

“I’ll draw you a map,” he declares, then follows her back down to the main floor.

Abbie sits at the table, watching Seamus draw, when she feels a lump under her. _Am I sitting on something?_ she wonders, lifting up to look at the chair. _No…_ she reaches her hand back and feels something in her back pocket. She sticks her hand in and feels the distinct shape of a nickel-sized sapphire attached to a gold chain, which is now likely tangled.

“Crane, you crafty bastard…” she mutters under her breath.

Seamus lifts his head. “What?” he asks.

“Hmm? Nothing,” she answers, looking down at the beautiful blue gem resting on her palm.


	7. Chapter 7

“No, I haven’t found the damn book yet,” Abbie groans. “Have you had any luck?”

Jenny picks up a chicken leg and says, “I have seen so much of Benny Frank’s handwriting I could probably forge his signature, but haven’t found anything useful.”

“I think I’ve figured out his alphabet,” Abbie sighs, biting into a french fry. They are having their girls’ night, and Jenny arrived with fried chicken dinners in tow. They spent some of the evening searching the house, and while they have found one secret crawlspace off the kitchen, they’ve turned up nothing else.

“Look at you, Brainiac; that’s totally going to impress your man,” Jenny declares. “Once we find a way to wake his ass up.”

“If we can find that stupid book. And even if we find it, there’s no guarantee it’ll work,” Abbie sighs, not even bothering to contradict her sister referring to Crane as “her man.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jenny sarcastically replies.

Abbie pries a wing apart and sighs. “I’m just trying to not get my hopes up too high,” she admits.

Jenny ponders her sister a moment and says, “Well, I’m letting myself get my hopes up. This guy… dead or not… he’s been really good for you. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you this happy.”

“Between this house and Crane, I haven’t had time to wallow in self-pity,” Abbie admits. “Macey sent me an email the other day from Tucson. She loves it there.”

“Oh good. Is she going to school?”

“Yeah, she’ll be starting at U of A in the fall,” Abbie answers. “She said she’s super excited about it.”

“Does she know what she wants to study?” Jenny asks.

“Um, she’s not sure, but something in science. Maybe biology. She’s super smart, so I’m sure she’ll be great at whatever she chooses,” Abbie replies.

“She’s a great kid. The world is a better place because she’s in it, and we have you to thank for the fact that she’s _still_ in it,” Jenny says. She holds her breath, waiting for the inevitable “but”.

“She’s going to to amazing things,” Abbie agrees, nodding as she refills both their wine glasses.

Jenny exhales and smiles. “Yes, she is. Now. Where is that cheesecake you promised me?”

 

xXx

 

It is well past midnight when the sisters finally go to bed. They do go upstairs for Crane’s 10:43 walk, and Abbie confesses she stood in his path the week before. She doesn’t tell her sister _everything_ that she felt when he walked through her.

Jenny sleeps in the Blue Room – which is now pale taupe with deep red curtains. The futon has been joined by a nightstand and a lamp, but the room is still largely empty.

Abbie falls asleep almost immediately.

_“Your hair is quite becoming, Lieutenant,” Crane says when he sees her. Jenny had done her hair in a braid that wound from the front to the back, curving asymmetrically around her head. He shyly opens his arms in invitation, and Abbie tries not to rush into them, but fails._

_She hasn’t seen him since they met in the Dream Realm, four days ago._

_“I apologize for my absence,” he murmurs. “Our rendezvous took rather a lot of my energy.”_

_She simply nods against his chest, telling him she understands. She looks up at him, picturing the true shade of blue in his eyes, kind of hating this dulled-down version she has to see here. Now that she knows what she’s missing, this setting both literally and figuratively pales in comparison._

_He slides his hands up her back, moving them up until he cups her face. He drops a kiss on her forehead and says, “I wish I had some helpful information for you, but thus far you have done exactly as I would have. I can think of nothing to suggest.”_

_Abbie nods again and drops her head against his chest. She inhales, and frowns because she is unable to smell him._

_“Do not give up hope, my treasure,” Crane murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “I know you will persevere. I know you will succeed.”_

_She looks up at him, her eyes questioning._ He has such faith in me; there’s no way I can let him down.

_“This… connection we have,” he explains. “It cannot be for no purpose. As Mr. Gage said, Fate does play a part.” He studies her face a moment, then leans down and kisses her lips._

_She sighs and melts, discovering the one thing that isn’t dulled by this place. He is cold, but his kisses still send a jolt through her. Her hands come up into his hair again, and she smiles against his lips when she realizes it is still down._

_“Oh…” he gasps, pulling away for a moment, his eyes searching her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t take adv—”_

_Abbie pulls his face down to hers, cutting off his unnecessary apology with her lips. His hands freely rove her body, cold but leaving heat in their path._

_Crane pulls away again, tugging her to the bench. “You are too petite,” he murmurs as they sit, then dives into her again. “And you really should wear more clothing to bed, because you are driving me completely mad,” he adds, trailing down her neck._

_She immediately makes a mental note to find where she put her booty shorts and that sheer camisole._ No, not the booty shorts. The black thong. I’m gonna make him lose his damn mind. _She shoves at his coat, wanting the thick wool out of her way. Her hands itch to know what he feels like, cold or not._

_He leans back and quickly sheds the thick woolen garment, dropping it on the ground beside the bench. He resumes exactly where he left off, at her collarbone, unconsciously nudging the strap of her tank top aside to allow his lips to move lower still._

_She drops her head back, encouraging him, wanting this,_ needing _this. She feels his hand at her waist, so she takes it and guides it up under her shirt._

_“You are playing with fire, Miss Mills,” he says, but his hand finds her breast. He groans and moves down, shoving her shirt up and out of the way before closing his lips over her nipple._

_Abbie’s mouth forms a soundless O from the sensation of his cool lips and tongue laving her. It’s strange, but good, and she bunches his shirt in her fists for a second before moving one down, searching for him._

_Crane is faster, however, slipping his hand inside her shorts. His cold fingers make her buck against him._

_Her hand slides down, over the front of his trousers, searching for the impressive length she felt in the Dream Realm. She finds her target, but the hardness is not there._

_“I’m afraid it will not work here,” he explains, clearly unhappy about this information, but it does not stop him from continuing to lavish her with attention._

Well, that’s hardly fair. _She moves her hand away, sliding it around to grab his rear instead._

_“Abbie,” he murmurs, his lips skimming back up to her neck while his fingers continue to do wicked things between her legs. “May I…”_

_She nods, not even really caring what he wants to ask._

_He moves lower again, presses a kiss to the swell of her breast, lifts his head, and asks, “May I drink from the flower of your womanhood?” He stills his fingers._

_She blinks a few times._ Did he seriously just ask that question… that way? _She nods more insistently, conveying that she already answered him._

_“You did not know what I was going to ask,” he counters, already pulling her shorts down as he moves to kneel on the ground, on top of his coat._

_All she can do is shrug, having no way to tell him that she trusts him._

_He settles between her thighs, but leans forward, kissing her stomach just below her belly button. “You are exquisite, Abigail,” he whispers, then kisses her knee._

_He gently pulls her to the edge of the bench, then makes a trail of kisses up her inner thigh. The feel of his beard alone is enough to make her squirm with pleasure. When his tongue makes contact, her mouth opens in a soundless cry. All she can think is_ Damn, he knows what he’s doing. _Then all thought leaves. She writhes, her fingers tangling in his hair._

_Then he adds one of those sinful fingers, slipping it inside while his tongue curls around her button, and she nearly loses her mind. When he adds a second, she explodes._

 

xXx

 

Abbie lies awake in bed, pleasantly warm and sated. She’s not even sure how to refer to what happened. _Was it an erotic dream? A spirit encounter?_

She decides to chalk it up under “miscellaneous”.

_Because that was no dream and he is definitely not a spirit,_ she thinks, remembering how his beard felt against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, how he seemed to instinctively know exactly how to use that tongue of his to make her squirm and gasp. If she could have gasped.

Remembering how tender and sweet he was after, in the moments before she was pulled away.

She reaches down with an exploratory hand and finds that she is still wet and slightly swollen, and her inner thighs are, indeed, a tad sensitive.

_Beard burn,_ she thinks, grinning stupidly. She moves her hand up to her breast and thinks about how his hands – instruments of sin, those – caressed and teased her until she was trapped between begging him to stop and begging for more.

She never really appreciated any man’s hands before Crane. Now she can’t _not_ notice them. She closes her eyes again, and can still see him standing there in the Dream Realm’s version of the Blue Room. How his hands fidgeted and fluttered, stroking his beard, tracing the edge of the windowsill, fiddling with the knob on that built-in cabinet…

_Wait._

Abbie sits up straight in bed. _That cabinet isn’t there anymore._ She just finished painting the room, and knows there is nothing built in to any of the walls.

She swings out of bed and hurries next door, where Jenny is sleeping on the futon.

“Abbie?” Jenny groggily asks, sitting halfway up. “What are you doing?”

“I just remembered something,” Abbie answers, walking to the wall where the cabinet was in the Dream Realm.

“You remembered that you wanted to stroke the wall?” Jenny asks, watching as her sister runs her hand over the smooth surface.

“There was a built-in cabinet here once,” Abbie explains, turning around. “I saw it in the Dream Realm. According to Crane, the room _there_ was exactly like it was back in his day, except there was no furniture. The walls were blue and everything. And there was a cabinet right here.” She smacks her palm flat against the wall. She cocks her head and then knocks on it. Then she moves to the adjacent wall and knocks on that one. It sounds different. She returns to the place where the cabinet was and hits it again. “It sounds hollow here.” She balls up her fist and pounds on the wall with the side of it.

“You’ll need an actual tool,” Jenny recommends. “Like a hammer or mallet. Maybe a saw.”

“Yeah,” Abbie agrees, and dashes downstairs. When she returns, Jenny is up and thumping the wall as well.

“Here,” Jenny points. “Give it a good smack right here.”

She moves her hand, and Abbie swings. She hits the wall with her hammer, denting the wallboard.

“Oh, good, it’s drywall,” Jenny says. “If it was plaster, it would be more difficult.”

“The fact that it’s drywall and _not_ the original plaster tells me that this is definitely the right place,” Abbie replies, hitting the wall again, this time plunging the head of the hammer through.

Jenny sticks her fingers into the hole and pulls, ripping the drywall out. Abbie drops the hammer and joins her, pulling and flinging, not caring a thing about the mess.

There is a rectangular space framed into the wall. One shelf is still hanging askew.

But it’s empty.

“Fuck,” Abbie breathes. “ _Fuck._ ” Frustrated, she picks up the hammer and swings, hard, right below the cabinet, venting her anger on the already-damaged wall. The bottom of the cabinet crumbles, completely rotted.

“Abbie,” Jenny says, grabbing her sister’s wrist before she swings again. She then pokes the remnants of some soft, spongy wood. “There’s almost no bottom left. If it was in here, it might have fallen through.”

They start pulling at the drywall again, ripping it away down to the floor.

A few minutes later, the sisters stare at a rectangle of burgundy leather for a moment before Abbie finally reaches down with a trembling hand.

“Please don’t be rotted too,” she whispers, gently wiping dust off of the cover. She sees a faded _B.F._ on the front and runs her fingers across it.

“Why would someone wall up a book?” Jenny asks.

“Maybe they didn’t see it,” Abbie theorizes. “Maybe it fell through before it was walled up. Who knows? And I don’t really care right now.” She opens it and scans the pages, looking for anything that would point to this being _the_ journal. Then she gasps.

“Is this it?” Jenny asks.

“Captain I. Crane,” Abbie answers, whispering, as she points at the name. “I think we have a winner. ‘Six-inch laceration to the left pectoral. It is rather deep, but Mrs. Dixon has expertly dressed it. I have set preparations in place to revive him after the end of this ridiculous war.’” She looks at her sister, grins, then looks up and says, “Crane, baby, we found it.”

 

xXx

 

They call Joe, and he arrives half an hour later with bagels and coffee. They huddle over the journal while they eat breakfast, taking notes and basically trying to figure out what to do.

Abbie stretches, then gets up to stretch and clean up a bit. She collects the napkins and paper cups, then walks to the trash can.

“Ab… it says you need to have a token. Like, something that was his,” Jenny says, looking worried. “We’re screwed.”

Abbie bites her lower lip, then quietly says, “I have something.”

“What?” Jenny and Joe say in unison, shocked.

“I have something,” she repeats, louder. She ignores her sister’s puzzled and suspicious look and goes to her room. She returns with the necklace a minute later. “He tried to give this to me when we met in the Dream Realm,” she says. “I refused, saying it was too much.” She ponders the beautiful pendant resting on her palm. “He must have slipped it into my pocket when we…”

“When you what?” Jenny asks, coming over to look at the necklace. “Holy shit, that thing must be worth a fortune! That sapphire is almost black!”

“That’s one reason why I didn’t want to accept it,” Abbie explains. “The other reason was it was his mother’s.” Abbie holds it up, letting the sun shine through the dark blue stone.

“When you _what_?” Jenny repeats, noting how her sister did not answer her the first time.

Abbie sighs. “We may or may not have made out a little bit,” she admits, firmly keeping the information about what they did in her dream last night locked inside her brain.

Jenny stares at her a second, blinks twice, then says, “Yeah, I probably would have done the same thing if I were in your place. Maybe more.”

“We only had 30 minutes, and we _did_ have some things to discuss,” Abbie explains with a laugh, then sets the necklace on the table.

“Go, girl,” Jenny says, grinning.

“Wow, that’s really nice,” Joe says, admiring the necklace but not touching it. “Is that silver or white gold?” he asks, noting the understated silver colored filigree surrounding it.

“I don’t know,” Abbie answers. “It’s not tarnished, so it’s probably white gold. I’ll have to get it appraised and insured, probably.”

“Definitely,” Joe agrees.

“I just hope it will work. I mean, it was his mother’s, not his,” Jenny says.

“Well, it was in his pocket for 235 years, so…” Abbie points out. “Spent more time with him than her.”

“Fair enough,” Jenny allows. She picks up the book again.

“What else do we need?” Joe asks. He grabs a fresh piece of paper.

“A black candle,” Jenny says, scanning the page.

“Seriously?” Abbie asks.

Jenny grins. “Not really. Doesn’t have to be black. Just a candle. Probably for a point of focus or something.” She pauses a moment and adds, “I think we should make sure it’s real beeswax though. We need to think of things that would have been available to Franklin.”

“Good call,” Abbie agrees. “What else?”

“Well, it looks almost like a séance. And it has to be done at a meaningful time, whatever that means.” Jenny furrows her brow.

“Full moon? Um, Halloween?” Joe suggests.

“Maybe,” Abbie says, pacing now. She frowns, not wanting to wait until Halloween. When she realizes her hands are clasped behind her back and she is bent slightly forward, she stops. _Jeez, I’m picking up his mannerisms now._ She looks at her hands, wondering if her fingers were fidgeting. “The anniversary of his… almost-death, I guess, is coming up. I think that might be pretty meaningful.”

Jenny picks up her phone. “What’s that date?” she asks.

“July 28,” Abbie answers. “What are you looking at?”

“Awesome,” Jenny says. “The 28th _is_ a full moon. Win-win.”

“You have a moon phase app?” Abbie asks.

“It actually comes in handy in my line of work,” Jenny says. “Don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Abbie replies. “Okay. Okay. What else?”

“That’s it,” Jenny says. “We recite this… thing… over his body – which we still need to find – and focus our energy on the candle’s flame. The candle needs to be over him.”

“Do we, like, hold hands?” Joe asks.

“Yep.”

“Are the three of us going to be enough? Should we ask Frank, Ash, and Seamus to come?” he asks.

“No,” Abbie says. “We’ve asked enough of them, for one thing. Also… I’d just rather not. If Crane thinks we need more, he’ll tell me, but I think the three of us will be enough.”

“This seems too simple,” Joe says, suspicious.

Jenny flips back to the previous page. “Let me double check. It says ‘token of the subject’ - that’s the necklace. Candle, check. Time, check.” She peers at the page. “Abbie, can you read this?”

Abbie takes the book and looks at the scrawled handwriting. “Looks like ‘One who is connected’.”

“What does that mean?” Joe asks. “Connected to what?”

“The spirit world?” Jenny suggests. “Maybe we need Frank or Seamus after all.”

“Him,” Abbie says. Joe and Jenny look over and see that her eyes are closed. She opens them. “Connected to Crane. I bet Franklin was going to have Katrina involved in reviving him.”

“And when she died, he probably figured it wouldn’t work,” Jenny theorizes.

“Or when she married his best friend,” Abbie says. “And his son would have been too young.”

“What? She married his best friend?” Joe asks. “Wow.”

“Yeah, kind of shady, right?” Jenny comments.

“How soon after he died did she shack up with him?” Joe asks.

“I don’t know; it wasn’t in Reverend Knapp’s log book,” Abbie says.

“Abbie,” Jenny says, turning to her sister. “Is your connection with this guy strong enough to bring him back to the land of the living?”

Abbie thinks for exactly two seconds before answering, “It’s strong.”

It’s the closest she’s come to admitting the truth of her feelings.

 

xXx

 

Abbie and Jenny had already planned to go out to try and find Crane’s resting place today, but what with finding the journal and the “meaningful time” approaching, they now _need_ to find where he is. So after Joe left for work, they head out into the forest.

“This is a really good map,” Jenny says, studying it as they walk. “Seamus is wasting his talent selling cars.”

“Seamus is wasting none of his talents, believe me,” Abbie counters. “How far is it?”

“Not very, from the looks of things. Hey, do you own all this land?”

“Um, yeah, I think so. The house came with several acres,” Abbie answers.

“Look at you, fancy land owner,” Jenny says. She goes quiet a second, then says, “I should have my trailer moved out here instead of paying for my spot in the trailer court.”

“Be my guest,” Abbie says, liking this compromise to her invitation to have Jenny move in. “We’d have to do something about getting you electricity and water – and _no_ , you are not going to run extension cords from my house.”

Jenny stops and gives her sister an exaggeratedly innocent look, then starts walking again, whistling “Be Our Guest” from _Beauty and the Beast._

They quietly walk through the forest for several more minutes, then Jenny abruptly stops. “Does this look familiar?”

Abbie steps up beside her sister and her eyes widen. “Those are the trees,” she says, her voice hushed. She slowly walks across the clearing, half expecting to see their bench sitting where it is in her dreams. “This is the place.”

Jenny walks into the center. “It’s cooler here.”

“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” Abbie agrees, looking around for any holes or caves. “Where are you, Crane?” she whispers, slowly walking around the perimeter while Jenny inspects the ground in the clearing, looking for hidden trap doors and the like.

When Abbie reaches the trees, her skin tingles and the hair on her arms stands up. She sets the battery-powered lantern she brought along down at the base of one of the trees and rubs her arms. “You’re close,” she whispers. “I know you are.”

“Find something?” Jenny’s voice makes Abbie jump.

“Not sure yet,” she answers, turning. “I… I think he’s close though.” She walks around the white trees, looking at each one for some sort of clue. The last one has something scratched into the bark. “Jen. What does this look like to you?”

Jenny comes over. “Looks like a bird with long legs.”

“A crane,” Abbie clarifies. “It’s a crane.”

Jenny tilts her head. “Yeah. I think you’re right. He’s gotta be close.”

Abbie chooses not to mention her tingling skin and keeps searching. She even goes back to the tree and presses the spot where the crane is carved. Just in case.

She is starting to get frustrated when she quite literally stumbles into a bush.

“You okay?” Jenny asks, jogging over.

“Yeah,” Abbie answers, taking her sister’s offered hand. “Wait.” She releases Jenny’s hand.

“What?”

“There’s something here,” she moves deeper into the bush. “There’s a flat rock… a big one.”

“Is there another crane on it?” Jenny asks.

“No, but there is a faded ‘I.C.’ etched into it. At least that’s what it looks like,” Abbie answers. “Get in here and help me move it.

Jenny walks around to the other side of the bush and crouches down across from her sister. “It’s big, but not very thick, thankfully,” she says, digging into the ground with her fingers to get a grip on the stone.

With some effort, they manage to shift it enough to reveal an opening beneath it.

“Let me grab the lantern,” Jenny says, jogging away. She returns a minute later and crouches down, shining it down into the hole.

Abbie peers inside. “I can’t see anything. I’m going in.”

“Abbie, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jenny asks.

“No, but I’m going anyway. Stay up here so you can pull me out,” Abbie answers, sitting at the edge of the hole. “I’ll let you know when you can pass the lantern down,” she says, then lowers herself in.

“Well?” Jenny calls.

“It’s not too deep… probably 7 feet or so,” Abbie says. “Drop the lantern and I’ll try to catch it.”

“Heads up,” Jenny warns, then drops it. It thunks to the ground two feet from where Abbie is standing.

“Thanks. Good thing this is shock-proof,” Abbie comments, picking the lantern up.

Jenny chuckles, now lying on the ground above and peering into the hole. “Is there anything in there?” Abbie doesn’t answer right away. Jenny can see the light moving around, but her sister has gone quiet. “Abbie?”

“There’s a big box down here,” she finally says.

“A coffin?”

“Kind of,” Abbie answers, not really wanting to think of it as such. She feels along the edges, looking for a clasp or something. “You in here, Crane?” she quietly asks, briefly setting her palm on top of the wood. “Jenny?” she calls up to her sister.

“Yeah?”

“Go back to the house and grab a ladder so I can get out of here again. I’m just going to try to open this box.”

“Do you need a… a pry bar or anything?” Jenny asks.

“Nah… if we need tools, we’ll need better lighting. We can try later if I can’t get it now,” Abbie answers. “I’ll be fine. But don’t dawdle.”

“Right,” Jenny replies. “You have your phone?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

Abbie looks up as her sister walks away, then resumes her tour of what might be Crane’s burial chamber. It’s remarkably clean and dry, considering it’s underground. She walks to one of the walls and touches it. It feels cool and rough, so she holds the lantern closer and discovers that it is stone.

“Benny Frank built you a damn underground crypt, Crane,” she whispers, turning back to the box. It is wood, but has been treated with something to keep it from rotting. When she runs her hand over the surface, she finds it smooth and cool. She sets the lantern on top and moves her hands to the edges, looking for some way to open it.

“Aha,” she says, finding a flat clasp. She brings the lantern over to take a closer look. It’s a fairly simple mechanism, and is not rusted through. She traces the outline of a button set into it, presses it, and hears a _click_.

She bites her lip and holds her breath as she begins to lift the lid. “Please don’t be a skeleton,” she says.

Abbie gasps at the sight before her.

Lying in the box, as still as death, is Ichabod Crane. His bright blue eyes are closed, his long fingers laced together on his stomach.

He doesn’t appear to be breathing.

But he doesn’t have the waxy pallor of a dead body.

Cautiously, Abbie reaches out a trembling finger and touches his hand. She gasps again, drawing a shuddering breath, and covers his hands with hers. They are the same cool temperature as when she sees him in her dreams.

“Abbie?” Jenny calls.

“Yeah,” Abbie answers, her voice shaky. She can hear the clanking of the ladder above.

“Well?”  
“It’s him,” she says. “I’m… I’m looking at him right now.”

“Oh shit; I’m coming down,” Jenny replies, lowering the ladder into the hole. In seconds, she is beside her sister, staring down at Crane’s handsome, peaceful face. “Well, hello there, tall, dark, and British.”

“Jenny,” Abbie whispers, only keeping a tenuous hold on her swirling emotions.

“Yeah.”

“He’s real. This is _real_.”

“I know. It’s a trip.”

Abbie looks at her sister. “What are we _doing_?”

Jenny puts her arm around Abbie’s shoulders. “We are going to come back here next week with Joe and a candle and that necklace, and we are going to wake up your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my—”

“Don’t even.”

Abbie sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay. So. We know _he’s_ here. What else is down here?” Jenny asks.

“I haven’t looked around that much,” Abbie says. “Was busy making sure this wasn’t just some random grave.”

“Yeah, how disappointing would that have been?” Jenny agrees. She takes the lantern and looks around a bit. “There’s something here, but I can’t open it. It’s like a drawer or door or something.” She looks closer, and says, “Wonder if the key is on Ichy somewhere. Wanna root around in his pockets and see?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at her sister.

“Um, I think I’ll pass right now,” Abbie answers, walking over. “And I told you he doesn’t like that nickname.”

Jenny snorts and raises her hand to a curious notch in the stone. “Odd.”

“Ever see anything like that?” Abbie asks.

“No. Well, I guess we hope that he’ll be able to open it when he’s awake,” Jenny says.

“If we can wake him,” Abbie mutters.

“We will. I refuse to accept failure,” Jenny confidently replies. “Largely because I don’t want to see you disappointed,” she adds in a softer tone.

“Thanks,” Abbie says. “Come on, let’s see if there is anything else.”

The sisters check the perimeter of the small chamber and find nothing else of interest. Finally, Jenny says, “I’m hungry. Let’s get some lunch.”

“Sounds good,” Abbie agrees.

Jenny heads toward the ladder. “Let’s go somewhere. You need to get out of here for a bit,” she says as she climbs.

“Okay, but only if we get Vietnamese. I’ve been wanting some phở,” Abbie calls. She pauses near Crane’s box for a second. “Next week, Crane,” she quietly says, then leans down and kisses his forehead. “Um… yeah, I probably should close this.”

“You coming?” Jenny calls.

“Just closing the box,” Abbie yells, then gently replaces the lid. She kisses her fingers, then presses them to the lid of the box before climbing up and out.

 

xXx

 

That night, Abbie calls Joe.

“Hey, Abbie, what’s up?” he greets.

“You got a second?” she asks, looking over the list in front of her.

“Yeah, I just got home a few minutes ago. What’s going on?”

“I need a favor,” she says, doodling on the corner of the page in front of her.

“Sure, anything,” he answers.

“Crane’s going to need, you know, supplies, once we wake him up,” she says. “Would you go to Walmart and pick up some basic necessities? Doesn’t have to be tonight, obviously. Just before the 28th.”

Joe pauses a second, then says, “Um, sure. But why me?”

“Because you’re a guy. You might think of something I wouldn’t.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough. So, soap…?”

“Soap, deodorant, shampoo, that kind of thing. Whatever you white guys use to, you know, groom yourselves. Maybe some clothes?”

He nods, chuckling. “Yeah, I have no idea what this guy looks like, how am I supposed to buy him clothes?”

“He’s tall and skinny,” Abbie says. “A little taller than you,” she says. “Just… get him some boxer briefs and some sweats and we’ll sort it out later,” she decides.

“Abbie, I appreciate your optimism, but…?” Joe starts, leaving the question hanging.

Abbie’s mouth sets in a hard line and she says, “Keep the receipt then.”


	8. Chapter 8

_“I felt your kiss on my forehead,” Crane tells Abbie, returning the gesture. “Forgive my absence, but I have the feeling I should save my energy as much as I can.”_

_She nods, agreeing. She had suspected as much when he hadn’t visited in several days._

_“Come and sit with me, Treasure,” he says, escorting her to the bench. “Your suggestion today was my reason for visiting you tonight, of course.” Abbie nods, settling in against his side. He wraps an arm around her and kisses her forehead. “And I thank you for all the information you gave me as well. I feel as though I have known you for much longer than I have. You shared so much.”_

_She smiles up at him, once again pushing away the worries that have been plaguing her. The what-am-I-going-to-do-if-it-doesn’t-work questions._

_Crane leans down and kisses her once, softly and slowly, then sits back and begins talking, telling her everything he can think of about himself. Providing her with as much information as she gave him._

_Making certain they are close enough, bonded enough, to have the strength to revive him._

_He tells her about his childhood with its winters on the outskirts of London and summers in Scotland, the exclusive boarding school he attended, and his decision to delay his intended career of becoming a professor of history at Oxford University to join the army._

_He was pleased to learn that the university still exists._

_He also tells her how his father disowned him when he learned his only son had turned his back on king and country to fight for the rebels. And how he would occasionally receive letters from his mother, knowing she sent them without his father’s knowledge and knowing he could not reply to them because of that fact._

_Abbie decides that they definitely need to take a trip to England after he’s awake again._

_If they can wake him._

_She attentively listens to him talk, loving the sound of his voice as much as the feel of his arms around her, until she feels the pull of wakefulness._

_“I will see you soon, my treasure,” Crane promises, cradling her face in his hands. He kisses her, then says, “I have faith in you. Please have faith in yourself.”_

 

xXx

 

Joe and Jenny come a few days later, on the 28th, carrying bags.

“Is that the stuff for Crane? I’ve got the candle,” Abbie says.

“Where did you find it?” Jenny asks, setting a bag on the table.

“That hipster coffee shop on James Street was having an art fair last weekend,” Abbie answers. She picks up the candle and shows her. “Young Miss Henna assured me that she made it herself, using pure beeswax from bees her girlfriend Sunshine raises.” She pauses a beat, then says, “I got some really good honey, too.”

“Ah,” Jenny says. “Okay then. And are they free-range, organic bees?” she asks, her lips twisting in a mischievous smirk.

“Jen, I think bees, by definition, are free-range,” Joe interjects, clearly missing the sarcasm.

“Yes, dear, thank you,” she replies, kissing his cheek. “Bless his heart,” she says to Abbie, causing Joe to exaggeratedly sigh and look at the ceiling.

“You done?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jenny says.

“What you got for me?” Abbie asks, digging into the bags. “Good, good, good. Nice choice of underwear,” she praises, looking at a three-pack of boxer briefs.

“It’s, um… the same kind I wear. I figured _I_ like it, so…” Joe admits.

Jenny giggles, and Abbie answers, “That makes sense. What’s this?” She pulls a bottle out of the bag and studies it. “Beard oil? Seriously?”

“You said he has a beard, right? Well, since beards are, you know, popular now, there are a ton of beard-care products available. I saw this dude looking at some, and I asked,” Joe explains.

“You asked?” Jenny repeats.

“Told him I was thinking of growing one and asked if he could recommend something.” The Mills sisters continue to stare at him and he adds, “He had a really nice beard. He even let me touch it.”

Jenny bursts out laughing while Abbie just smiles and nods. “Thanks, Joe. We’ll see if he likes it or not,” she says. She pulls out a razor and some socks before her fingers close around a small box. She withdraws it and just gives Joe a look. “Really?”

“Hey, a good boy scout is always prepared,” he says, defending his choice. “Jenny thought it was a good idea, too.”

_It actually is a really good idea,_ Abbie thinks, but simply puts the box of condoms back into the bag. _I’ll put that in my nightstand later._

“So. When do we do this?” Jenny asks, looking at her watch. “Do we have to wait for his special time?”

“Let me put this stuff upstairs, and we’ll talk about it,” Abbie says. She picks up the bags and runs upstairs.

“She wants to stash the condoms so he doesn’t see them,” Jenny mutters to Joe.

“I heard that,” Abbie calls down. “And you’re not wrong.”

“But can’t he see and hear what goes on here?” Joe asks.

Jenny is still laughing about this when Abbie returns.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Jenny replies, “What’s the plan?”

“Well, I don’t know if we need to wait until 10:43, but I think we should at least wait until the moon is up,” she says.

“Let’s order some pizza then,” Jenny declares. “Since we’ll have to wait until after 9, we may as well eat.”

“On it,” Joe says, already dialing his phone.

 

xXx

 

After dinner, they head out into the forest, laden with supplies.

“We should have cleared a path. Then I could have just driven my truck,” Jenny says, holding her lantern up so she can see.

“I didn’t want to make his hiding place easy to find,” Abbie replies. “Just in case.”

“That’s actually pretty smart,” Joe agrees, lugging the ladder. “If we aren’t able to resurrect him—”

“Revive,” Abbie corrects. “He’s not dead.”

“Fine. If we aren’t able to _revive_ him, you don’t want anyone else stumbling onto him either,” Joe finishes.  
“We will,” Jenny insists. “We’ll wake his ass up.”

“Yes,” Abbie agrees, but she doesn’t sound quite as certain. The weight of the sapphire pendant feels extremely heavy on her chest, but she takes a strange comfort in its presence. This is the first time she’s worn it; she couldn’t bring herself to do so before tonight.

“Here we are,” Jenny sings, striding across the clearing seemingly without a care in the world.

“Those aren’t creepy at all,” Joe says, nodding at the trees.

“I know, right? Do you know what kind of trees these are?” Jenny asks.

“No idea.”

“I thought you were a good boy scout,” she counters.

“I didn’t get a merit badge in Tree Identification,” he answers.

“Bring the ladder over here,” Abbie says, ignoring their banter.

“Yes ma’am,” Joe replies, following her. He drops the ladder down into the hole, then watches Abbie immediately descend.

He makes to follow, and Jenny stills him with a hand on his elbow. “Give her a minute,” she quietly says. “She might want a moment alone first.”

Down in the hole, Abbie sets her lantern down and opens the lid of the box holding Crane. It is split like a traditional coffin, so she only opens the part over his head, knowing they need to set the candle over his body.

“Hey,” she says, smoothing his hair back. She kisses his forehead again. “You’re… warm,” she brokenly whispers, leaning down again and pressing her cheek to his forehead, like a mother checking her child’s temperature. “I hope that’s a good sign.” She straightens up, then looks up and yells, “You guys coming down or what?”

“Yeah,” Jenny says, starting to descend the ladder.

Abbie begins unpacking her bag, pulling out the candle and an antique silver candle holder she conveniently found in the hidden kitchen crawlspace.

She is just setting it into place when Joe walks over and looks down at Crane.

“Wow,” he says. He stares a few moments more then repeats, “Wow.”

“Okay,” Abbie says, looking at Jenny. “What do we do?” They had agreed that Jenny would be the keeper of the journal for the ceremony to allow Abbie to concentrate.

“Abbie, you stand there, so he sees you first,” Jenny says, pointing to the side of the coffin. She flips to the correct page in the book. “Joe, over here,” she directs, then steps over into her place, forming a triangle around Crane’s head. “Abbie, light the candle.”

Abbie takes out a box of matches, hoping they don’t need to use some antiquated method to light the candle. She strikes one and lights the candle, willing her hand to be steady.

“Okay. We hold hands, and say the words three times. Then, Abbie, you blow out the candle _towards_ Crane,” Jenny says, reading from the journal.

“All right. What are the words?” Abbie asks.

“‘Ichabod Thomas Crane, we summon you. Ichabod Thomas Crane, arise from your slumber. Ichabod Thomas Crane, return to us.’ Concentrate on the necklace and on him, Abbie.”

They join hands and recite the words. Abbie stares at Crane’s face, thinking of how much she wants to see him living and breathing, with her. Alive.

She leans forward and blows. The flame sputters, but does not extinguish. Her eyes flash towards her sister.

“Try again,” Jenny whispers. “The flame is supposed to carry your breath to him, to breathe life into him.”

Abbie blows again, harder, but the flame merely leans, doing nothing else.

“It didn’t work.” Abbie’s voice splits the stunned silence.

“The necklace wasn’t strong enough,” Jenny announces, dropping their hands. “I was worried about that.”

“Maybe it was me. Maybe my connection to him isn’t strong enough,” Abbie says, deflating. _I will not cry. I will not cry._ She runs her hands through her hair, frustrated.

“Should we try again?” Joe suggests, feeling a bit helpless.

“Wait,” Abbie says, her hands stilling in her hair. She drops them and digs into her pocket.

“What is that?” Jenny asks, watching as her sister withdraws a thin strip of leather from her pocket.

“It was holding his hair back,” Abbie says, twisting it around her fingers. “I kind of yanked it free when we were making out in the Dream Realm,” she quietly admits.

“Jesus, Abbie, why didn’t you tell me you had that in the first place!” Jenny yells. “That’s going to have _way_ stronger juju than the necklace!”

“What, this Colonial era scrunchie?” Abbie asks, staring at the leather string.

“ _You_ pulled it from his hair in a moment of passion,” Jenny explains, as though it should have been obvious. “It has strong memories for you; it is something you _took_ from him. Something personal. I mean, the fact alone that you had it in your pocket…” She looks at her sister. “You’ve been carrying it since you got it, haven’t you?” Abbie sheepishly nods, and Jenny exhales. “Yeah. We were using the wrong damn token.”

“Well, when you put it like that, it seems obvious,” Abbie replies. “I feel kind of dumb now…”

“Abbie. It’s my _job_ to know about these kinds of things,” Jenny reassures her. “Now put that damn thing in your hair and we’re going to try again.”

“This is never going to hold my hair,” Abbie says, indicating the mass of curls surrounding her head. She’s been leaving it natural since she took out the braids Jenny did.

“Fine, just hold it in your hand then,” Jenny says, holding her hand out.

Abbie winds the strip of leather around her fingers and takes her sister’s hand, then grabs Joe’s hand with her other.

_Come on, Baby,_ she thinks just before they begin again.

They speak the chant, then Abbie takes a deep breath. She leans forward, eyes closed, and blows.

When Jenny gasps, Abbie opens her eyes. The thin plume of smoke from the extinguished candle wafts upward, then sharply bends down, traveling towards Crane’s face. The wispy tendrils curl and curve into his nostrils, but he doesn’t move.

The smoke fully dissipates, and Abbie squeezes Jenny’s hand, her eyes locked on Crane.

After a heart-stopping few seconds, the flame suddenly returns to the candle, sputtering a moment before burning brightly.

Crane gasps loudly, his body jolting to life. Abbie, Jenny, and Joe all jump.

Ichabod Crane opens his eyes, blinking rapidly, breathing heavily, almost like he had drowned and was just given CPR. The first thing he sees is the bright flame of a candle.

His eyes begin frantically darting around, unfocused, until they settle on Abbie’s face.

“Lieutenant.” It is a hoarse whisper, but it causes the tears brimming in her eyes to spill forth and roll down her cheeks.

“Crane,” she replies, not noticing Jenny and Joe quietly stepping back into the shadows.

They stare at one another for several long seconds, then Abbie reaches out with a trembling hand and touches his face, her palm flat on his cheek.

“You’re warm,” she says. She moves her hand down to his chest and feels his heart beating beneath it. “And you’re alive.”

He stiffly unclasps his hands and brings one up to cover hers. “So are you,” he replies.

Abbie’s shock snaps away from her and she springs into action. She blows the candle out again and moves it off of the coffin lid so she can open the bottom half. “Let’s get you out of here,” she says. “Joe, I think we need your help.”

Jenny and Joe come forward.

“Slowly, now,” Joe says as he and Abbie help Crane to sit up. “You good?” he asks. “No dizziness?”

“No, I am well. Thank you,” Crane replies.

“Here, drink this,” Joe hands Crane a bottle. “It’s just water.”

He takes it and drinks deeply. “Are you a physician?” he asks, drinking more.

“Oh, sorry, Crane, this is Joe Corbin. And my sister, Jenny, of course,” Abbie introduces.

“Mr. Corbin, Miss Jenny, I am honored to finally meet you in person. I have seen and heard you, of course,” he says.

Joe offers his hand, which Crane shakes. “This is amazing,” he says. “And no, I’m not a doctor. I’m an Emergency Medical Technician. It’s like a… a medic.”

“Ah. Of course; you were in the military, were you not?” Crane asks.

“Marines,” Joe confirms. “And you were in the Army?”

“Briefly,” Crane chuckles, then turns his attention to Jenny. “Miss Jenny, I must thank you for all you have done to aid and support your sister.”

Jenny gives her sister a brief look that clearly asks, _Is this how he talks all the time?_ then replies, “Hey, that’s what sisters do. She deserves to be happy, you know?”

“Indeed I do,” he agrees.

“She’s always taking care of everyone else,” Jenny continues, giving her sister a meaningful look. “So when I saw she had a chance for her own happiness, I couldn’t let it slip away.”

Crane holds his hand out and Jenny goes to shake it. He instead gently grasps her fingers and lifts her hand to his lips, placing a brief, soft kiss there. “You have my gratitude,” he says.

Jenny unsuccessfully tries to hide her smile, then clears her throat. “Okay. Should we try to get you on your feet now?”

“Please,” Crane says, handing the water bottle to Joe, who puts it back in his bag. With their help, he turns, swinging his long legs up and over the side of the coffin and onto the platform.

“Okay, on three,” Joe says, supporting one side of Crane. Jenny is on his other side, and Abbie is holding his hands. “One, two, _three._ ”

Crane jumps down, wobbles, then stands. “Thank you,” he says. He takes a few slow, experimental steps. “It seems I am quite sound.”

“Whatever Franklin did, it kept your muscles from atrophying. So that’s good,” Joe says. He pulls the water bottle back out and sets it on the platform. “I’d like you to finish this, and when we get back to the house, I’ll check you over.”

Crane nods. “Very well,” he agrees. “But first…” He steps towards Abbie and cups her face in his hands, his thumbs swiping away the remnants of her tears. “Every time I see you, you are more beautiful,” he softly says. “I cannot express my joy at being here, with you, alive.”

“Try,” Abbie whispers, then lifts up to meet his descending lips, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of his coat.

His arms wrap around her, pulling her against him as he kisses her with everything he has. It is a soft, slow, deep kiss, causing Abbie to slide her hands inside his coat and around his back. She clings to him, her toes barely on the ground and her head swimming.

“God _damn_ ,” Jenny whispers, watching.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees.

Abbie and Crane finally separate, knowing there is more business that needs tending. He obediently picks up the water bottle and drinks, nearly draining it.

“Hey, Crane,” Jenny says, walking over to the door set into the wall. “Any ideas on this thing?”

He walks over and runs his hand over the wall. “Curious,” he says.

“Do you have anything in your pockets?” Abbie asks. “Specifically, a key?”

He checks his pockets and turns up nothing except a ring.

“Is that your wedding ring?” Joe asks.

Crane puzzles at him a moment. “Do you mean my wife’s wedding ring?”

“Men wear wedding rings too, now, Crane,” Abbie says. “Is it yours though?”

“No… it appears to be a Masonic ring,” he answers. “I am a Mason, but I did not have a ring. This appears to have been Franklin’s.”

“He must have put it there for a reason,” Jenny says, leaning over to look at it. “Wait. Let me see that.” Crane hands her the ring and she holds it close to her lantern. “I think this matches.”

She hands it to Abbie, and she confirms her sister’s finding. “Yeah, it looks like…” She turns back to Crane. “I think this ring _is_ the key,” she says, holding it up to the curious notch in the door she and Jenny found the previous week.

He leans forward. “Indeed,” he agrees. “Please,” he adds, gesturing with his hand that she should give it a try.

Abbie places the ring into the notch. It fits. She tries turning it, but it doesn’t turn. “Hmm.” She pushes it, and hears a click. A moment later, she jumps back as the panel slides to one side, revealing a hidden cabinet. “Whatever is in here is probably meant for you,” she says, stepping aside to allow Crane to come forward.

“Thank you,” he says. He pulls out an envelope and a large wooden box. “Just personal information,” he mutters, looking in the envelope. “Military record, identification, et cetera.” He moves to the box, which easily opens. “My pistol. Ah, my cufflinks. Mother gave these to me when I left for the Colonies,” he says, holding one up.

“Hey, there’s a sword in here,” Jenny interrupts. She stands up from where she was crouched behind the platform holding Crane’s coffin. “This yours?”

“Yes,” he says. “That would be the sword I was carrying when I was mortally wounded in battle.”

Jenny walks over and looks in the box. “Holy shit, the stuff in here is probably worth a fortune,” she says. “Benny Frank was looking out for you, Ichy.”

“Benny… Frank?” Crane says, shocked enough by Jenny’s nickname for his famous rival that he ignores the fact that she just called him “Ichy” to his face.

Abbie shakes her head and sighs. “She’s been calling him that for weeks,” she says. “Why don’t we take this box up to the house with us and go through it there,” she suggests. “The mosquitoes are starting to find their way down here.”

“Good call,” Joe agrees, slapping his arm.

 

xXx

 

The wooden box turns up to be a literal treasure chest. Not only does it contain several of Crane’s personal effects, but there is a substantial amount of Colonial Era currency as well as many other items for which any American museum would pay top dollar.

Crane also identifies the silver candle holder Abbie found as Paul Revere’s handiwork. When Abbie says there are five more just like it as well as several other antique items in the crawlspace, Jenny nearly drops her drink.

“You keep Hawley’s grubby mitts away from this stuff,” Abbie warns.

Jenny scoffs and says, “This stuff is too good for Hawley’s buyers, believe me.”

They sort the items into _Keep_ and _Sell_ piles, then Joe checks Crane’s vitals while the Mills sisters begin looking up some of the things on the internet, trying to figure out how much they are worth.

“It’ll help cover his expenses for a while, anyway,” Jenny quietly says. “But he’s eventually going to need a job.”

“I was thinking of talking to Caroline,” Abbie replies. “She is active with the local re-enactment group, which is affiliated with the museum.”

“Man’s a walking museum,” Jenny says, nodding. “He’ll love it.”

Abbie snorts a laugh. “He’ll tell them what they’ve got wrong.”

“Like I said: He’ll love it,” Jenny repeats, laughing with her sister.

Abbie looks over at Crane and smiles fondly at the sight of him listening to his own heartbeat with Joe’s stethoscope. He lifts the chestpiece and taps on it, then holds it to Joe’s chest.

“Yeah, he’s adorable,” Jenny says, poking her sister. “And how can you listen to that voice of his without soaking your drawers?” she whispers.

Abbie chokes on her laugh, trying to stifle it. “Have you noticed his hands though?” she asks.

“ _Have_ I,” Jenny answers. “Those things are positively pornographic.”

Abbie nods, watching Joe explain his sphygmomanometer to Crane and knowing he’s going to want to try that, too.

“Hey Abs, is there any pizza left? Or something to eat?” Joe asks once he is done with Crane.

“Oh my God, I didn’t even think about that!” Abbie says, jumping up. “You must be starving!” She goes to the kitchen, Crane trailing after her like a curious puppy.

“I should very much like to try this pizza, if there is indeed any left,” he says. “I have seen it many times and it looks delicious.”

“Baby, you are in for a treat,” Abbie replies, opening the box. “I’ll warm it up for you, but it’s actually pretty good cold or at room temperature.”

He reaches down and snags a piece before she can finish putting the leftovers in a frying pan. He pops it into his mouth and his groan almost makes her drop the pizza.

“Are you all right, Treasure?” he asks, still chewing. “This is decadent,” he adds, grabbing one more before she can put it on the stove.

“That sound you made was decadent,” she replies. She fires up the burner and places a lid on top.

“May I ask…?”

“You can ask anything you want, anytime, Ichabod,” Abbie says, smiling up at him. “This is going to be an adjustment for you, and I don’t want you to be afraid or feel too proud to ask me questions.”

He smiles and nods. “I was wondering why you did not use this,” he taps the microwave with his finger, “to warm the pizza? From my observations, it seems to be a most efficient and ingenious device.”

“The microwave is a gift from God, yes,” Abbie agrees. “But it’s not good for everything. It’s actual crap for reheating pizza. Ruins the crust, and the cheese gets lava-hot around the edges but stays cold in the center. Frying pan is the way to go for this,” she explains, lifting the lid on said pan and shaking it a little to make sure the pieces aren’t sticking.

Joe wanders in with a bottle of Gatorade for Crane. “Here,” he says.

Crane studies the bottle, reading the label.

“You’re still a bit dehydrated, and I figured this was preferable to hooking you up to an I.V.,” Joe explains. “I would… stick a needle in your arm and hook it up to some beneficial fluids that would go straight into your bloodstream.”

Crane opens the bottle. “I am not certain I understand your explanation, but I am certain I prefer this beverage to being stuck with a needle,” he says, then takes a sip. His eyes widen and he blinks in surprise.

“It’s probably super sweet to your palate,” Abbie says, trying not to giggle.

He takes another drink, longer. “It is, but I like it,” he declares, drinking more.

Abbie tears her eyes away from his Adam’s apple to check the pizza.

“What I wouldn’t give for a nice glass of ale though,” Crane says with a sigh, pondering the half-empty Gatorade bottle.

“Soon enough, my man,” Joe says, clapping him on the back. “Need to make sure you’re in good working order before we can get you drunk.”

“Indeed,” Crane agrees. “Thank you, Treasure,” he says, taking the offered plate of pizza.

“You can bring it out and eat in the living room,” she says.

They enter the living room to find Jenny packing up their things. “It’s getting late,” she says. “Some of us have jobs to go to in the morning.”

“Like who?” Abbie asks.

“Oh, ha ha,” Jenny replies. “I’ll have you know that I need to meet a guy about a thing at eight.” She pauses, then adds, “A.M.”

“Thanks for everything, Jen,” Abbie says, going to hug her sister. She knows better than to ask about this “guy” and “thing”.

“Yes, thank you ever so much, Miss Jenny,” Crane echoes, appearing behind Abbie. He offers his hand, and Jenny brushes it aside to hug him, bringing a quiet exclamation of surprise from his lips.

“Well, Crane, it’s been weird,” Joe says, and the two men shake hands. “But I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“Mr. Corbin, I thank you for your attention to my health,” Crane replies. “And I look forward to seeing both of you again.”

“Us too,” Jenny replies. “Call me tomorrow, Abbie. When you’re… free.”

“Shut up,” Abbie says, trying not to laugh while she deliberately avoids looking at Crane.

The house is quiet after Jenny and Joe leave. Abbie sits across from Crane and watches him eat his pizza.

“Please,” he offers her some, trying unsuccessfully to not talk with his mouth full.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” she politely declines. “I’m actually rather enjoying watching you. Is that weird?”

He pauses for a moment, swallows, then says, “Certainly no weirder than anything else that has happened this evening.” He pops the last piece of pizza in his mouth, then looks forlornly at the plate.

“I have some leftover chicken,” she offers. “Or I could make you a sandwich.”

“Do not go to any trouble on my account,” he says, finishing his Gatorade.

She stares at him a moment, then says, “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Her lips twitch into a wry smile, and he starts laughing.

“Oh, my dear Miss Mills, I… this is all so strange, but so wonderful,” he says, moving to sit beside her. He takes her hands in his and kisses them both. “Your success in reviving me just goes to prove that we were meant to find one another. I truly believe we are kindred spirits.”

She smiles up at him, suddenly shy, a little overwhelmed being alone with him in person. “I think you may be right,” she says after a minute. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“It is certainly unexpected,” he allows, lifting one hand to trail a finger along her jaw. “But I feel a closeness with you I never felt with anyone before, not even…”

“Katrina?” Abbie asks, and he nods. She catches his hand and kisses his fingers. “If it helps, I feel like you know me better than Jenny does,” she quietly admits.

“It does,” Crane admits. “This fate may not be what Franklin had originally intended for me, but… I do not think I would wish to change it. Though I have only been here a very short time, and I know this in my very soul.” He leans down and briefly, tenderly kisses her.

They separate and he rests his forehead against hers for a moment. For lack of anything else to say, Abbie asks, “Do you need anything more to eat?”

Crane chuckles and answers, “I am, as you say, ‘good’.”

“Um, this might seem like a strange question, but do you want to take a shower? I mean, you’ve been in that box, in these clothes for a minute, so…” she asks.

“ _Yes_.” His answer comes with such relieved gusto that Abbie begins wondering if he has wanted to clean up for a while and has been too polite to ask. She opens her mouth to apologize, but he beats her to it. “I had not given bathing a thought, honestly, but as soon as you asked, it sounded like the best idea in centuries.”

She chuckles and stands. “I had Joe pick up some things for you,” she starts, but then realizes he likely knows. “But you probably saw.”

“I did, and I thank you for thinking of my needs,” he replies. “And I must say that modern clothing looks far more comfortable than the garments we had available in the 1780s.”

“I think that’s a safe bet,” she agrees, leading him upstairs. “Joe didn’t buy a lot of clothing for you, because we weren’t sure of your size. So we’ll have to go shopping soon.”

“I look forward to adapting to this century, with your kind tutelage, of course,” Crane says. “Though I may keep my coat. I am rather attached to it.”

She thinks of his wool overcoat, now hanging in the closet in her foyer. “We’ll get it cleaned,” she says. “You won’t need it until the fall anyway.”

He steps into the bathroom and briefly startles at his reflection in the mirror. “Goodness, I look a sight,” he pronounces.

“You look good for 200,” she says. “A little dusty, but nothing a nice shower won’t fix.”

“Quite,” he agrees after a moment, looking at her face in the mirror instead of his own.

“Um…” she hesitates in the doorway to the bathroom before stepping inside and walking to the tub. “You, uh, turn the knob there for water, and—”

“I am familiar with the workings of your plumbing, Miss Mills,” he quietly interjects.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought you said you never once cast your eyes where they were not welcomed,” she says.

He straightens up, squaring his shoulders. “I have been observing this house for over 200 years. And while I _am_ a gentleman, I do have an insatiable curiosity. When the indoor plumbing was installed, I observed the _man_ of the house preparing for his bath. Then, when it was updated, I did the same, only that time it was a shower. Never the ladies, no matter how… tempting she may have been.” His eyes darken as he looks down at her, telling her exactly to whom he was referring.

She clears her throat. “Okay then,” she says, swallowing hard. _How does he get me all riled up without even touching me?_ “I’ll just… leave you to it. Your towel,” she points. “There’s a robe on the back of the door for you, and some clean clothes in what used to be the Blue Room.”

He steps over and cups her face in his hands. “Thank you,” he quietly says. “I truly appreciate everything you have done for me.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispers. He kisses her forehead, then she drags herself from the bathroom and closes the door.

 

xXx

 

_This isn’t creepy at all._ Abbie lightly gnaws at her lower lip, chastising herself with sarcasm as she sits outside the bathroom, listening to Crane shower. She expects him to be in there a while for the novelty of instant hot water alone, not to mention the 235-year nap inside an underground box.

He starts singing, some morose song that sounds like a sea chanty. _He doesn’t have a bad voice._ She smiles to herself, trying not to picture him naked, water and suds coursing down his lean body…

_You haven’t even seen his body yet; how can you picture it?_ she chides herself.

She sighs, glances at the unlocked door – she didn’t hear him lock it – then goes to her room, deciding to change into sleepwear. She briefly ponders the thong and sheer camisole ensemble, but instead chooses a tank top and a pair of shorts. Perfectly respectable by today’s standards. She heads to the Blue Room and double checks that everything is there for him. Then she goes back to her room and double checks that the box of condoms are still in her nightstand.

“Ho,” she mutters to herself. “Man has been here ten seconds and you’re already looking to get some.” She slams the drawer and walks back out into the hallway, pushing away memories of what he can do with his tongue.

Crane’s singing has changed from weird morose sea chanties about dead sailors to a surprisingly good rendition of “What a Wonderful World” that causes Abbie to blink back unexpected tears.

The water turns off, and she scurries back into her room, where she grabs her phone and attempts to look at Facebook.

The door opens and she hears his familiar footfalls in the hallway, except this time, he’s really there and he’s barefoot.

“Lieutenant?” he calls.

“Coming,” she answers, and heads over to see what he needs. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees him, completely unprepared for the sight of him in a bathrobe, looking all pink and clean, his hair hanging in damp waves around his face, his muscular calves showing.

“What is this material?” he asks, thoughtfully rubbing the plastic bag between his fingers. “I have seen it, but have never heard its name.”

“It’s called plastic,” she explains, trying not to get distracted by his hands. “You’ll see it everywhere actually. The shampoo bottles in the shower, your toothbrush – did you see that in there?” He nods, and she continues. “Um, the outside of my phone,” she taps the screen. “Lots of things. Useful stuff. Man-made.”

“I see. Fascinating,” Crane murmurs, pawing through the bag.

Abbie makes a mental note to show him _Star Trek_ at some point. “Do you have any questions about anything in there?’  
“I believe I have the measure of most of these items, yes. Even though I have not personally used… anti-perspirant and deodorant or this mysterious _beard oil_ about which you and Mr. Corbin spoke, I have observed much. And, failing that, I can certainly read directions,” he answers, tapping the back of the box holding the bottle of beard oil.

“Okay. I’m going to do my hair, so I’ll be right down the hall if you need me,” she says.

“Thank you, Abbie,” he replies.

She smiles and heads to the bathroom, wondering if he is tidy or messy. _Of course he’s tidy._ It’s still a bit steamy from his long shower, but his towel is hung on the rod with military precision, the shower is wet but otherwise spotless, and the cap is on the toothpaste. There aren’t even any puddles on the floor.

She leans down and sees that he _did_ brush his teeth – the bristles are still wet.

She follows suit, brushing her teeth, then securing her hair under a silk scarf for the night. Suddenly, she has a realization.

“Hey, Ichabod?” she calls, walking back to his room.

He opens the door, clad in a pair of running pants and a gray t-shirt.

“Wow,” she blurts before she can stop herself.

“Do I look ridiculous?” he asks, clearly unsure.

“Not at all. I just wasn’t prepared for the sight of Ichabod Crane, modern man,” she admits. “You look really… cozy.”

“These garments are extraordinarily comfortable,” he says. “The undergarment alone was worth being trapped in a box for 235 years.”

Abbie blinks once, caught off guard, then starts laughing. “Well, I’m glad you find them acceptable. There are other options if you decide you’re not into boxer briefs though.”

“No, these are quite sufficient. Very… supportive,” Crane says, his cheeks coloring a bit.

“Okay then,” she replies, ready to move on. “I was actually coming to ask you if you were tired at all.”

“Not a bit, I’m afraid,” he answers. “If you wish to retire, I will be fine, if you would but provide me some books or other reading material.”

“I have a better idea,” she says, grabbing his hand and leading him downstairs.

“Oh?” he asks, curious, then, “Oh,” when she sits him down in front of her laptop.

“You’ve seen me use this,” she says.

“Yes,” he replies, experimentally dragging a finger over the trackpad. “How clever,” he softly exclaims, fascinated by the simple act of watching the pointer go where his finger tells it.

“That will take you to the internet,” she instructs, pointing to the Firefox icon. He clicks it, and her Yahoo homepage opens. “I’ll show you a few sites to start out with, but you can literally type any question into this bar… _here…_ and it will give you some sort of answer.”

“Amazing,” he pronounces. “What are the Mets?” he asks, reading the headline for the sports story currently flashing on the home page.

“Baseball team. No sports fans ever live here?” she asks.

“One or two, but I did not pay much attention to that aspect of modern life, I’m afraid,” he answers.

“You’ll learn,” she assures him. She shows him some sites, warns him against clicking anything that pops up, gives the standard disclaimer that not _everything_ can be taken as complete fact, then leaves him to it.

She curls up on the sofa, wanting to stay nearby.

“You do not need to keep me company, Abbie,” he says, already engrossed.

“I’m fine,” she assures him. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you get hungry, and let me know if you have any questions,” she adds, but her eyes are already closing.

Some time later, Crane rises, pulls a blanket out from inside a chest, and places it over her sleeping form.

“Sleep well, my treasure,” he whispers. Then he goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, making a mental note to ask about tea the next day. He ponders the refrigerator a moment before opening it, then stares at the collection of plastic containers bearing various foodstuffs. Seeing something familiar, he opens the crisper drawer and withdraws an apple before returning to the computer to continue reading about World War I.


	9. Chapter 9

Abbie slowly opens her eyes, her neck stiff. _Ugh, why?_ She inwardly groans, wondering why she is on the couch. She blinks, attempting to focus as she tilts her head this way and that, trying to stretch it. “Oh!” she yelps, then, “God…” she exhales.

“No, ’tis only me,” Crane says, his lips curling into a small smile. He is seated across from her, simply watching her. “Good morning, Treasure.”

“So that wasn’t all some weird-ass dream then,” she declares, sitting up and rubbing her neck.

“I do not believe so,” he replies, standing and coming to sit beside her.

“Were you… watching me sleep?” she asks, hoping she wasn’t snoring or drooling or anything embarrassing like that. He reaches up and begins massaging her neck. “You don’t have to… oh, that feels good.”

“I was watching you,” he admits. “I am sorry for making you uncomfortable in doing so.”

“You didn’t; you just startled me,” she says. “I mean you’ve been watching me for nearly two months, so why should I start minding now?”

“You look like an angel when you sleep,” he murmurs, leaning over to kiss her temple.

“I don’t snore, do I?” she asks, her lips twitching into a smile.

“Not that I noticed.”

“Were you up all night?,” she asks, and when his fingers still, she adds, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, his hand now softly resting on her neck. “I was. I learned a great deal about this country’s rather turbulent history.”

“How far did you get?”

“The Gulf War, 1990,” he answers. “I also ate one apple, six confections called ‘Oreos’, a cylinder of white cheese, and a handful of…” he wiggles his fingers, trying to remember, “Honey Nut Cheerios.”

Abbie smiles. “Yeah, they’re supposed to be eaten in a bowl with milk,” she says, wondering why he didn’t look more closely at the box. “It’s cereal. Usually a breakfast food.” She can’t even find the will to care that he ate _six_ of her Oreos.

“Ah.”

“You’ll learn,” she assures him. “There are so many new things for you to try.”

He nods. “I have seen many things that look quite delicious,” he says, his eyes darkening as he gazes at her.

_Okay, so he’s not just talking about food._ “Indeed,” she replies, using one of his terms. She bites her lower lip. “If there’s anything… in particular… you’d like to try, just… let me know,” she adds, trying not to sound _too_ suggestive.

“Of course,” he answers, his voice low. He leans forward, but before his lips can connect with hers, she leans back.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” she softly says. “Morning mouth.”

“I do not care,” he replies, leaning forward again. However, he honors her wishes, merely nuzzling her nose with his. Then he kisses her cheek. “I will leave you to do what you will.”

She smiles. “I’ll just get cleaned up and then make you some breakfast,” she says, standing. She stretches, inwardly preening at the way his eyes follow her movements. When she raises her arms over her head, his eyes widen as they land on her her exposed stomach, and it takes all her self-control not to bend over and do some toe-touches just to torment him. “You ever have waffles?”

He blinks, then dashes back to the computer. “Waffles…” he mutters as he types the word into the Google search window. “Ah. No, but they look wonderful.”

 

xXx

 

After a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and coffee, Abbie takes Crane out to do some shopping. He looks perfectly respectable in his casual attire, complete with modern shoes. Somehow Joe determined he and Crane have nearly the same size feet, and left a spare pair of sneakers he had in Jenny’s truck for him to borrow so he wouldn’t have to wear his Colonial-era boots with running pants.

Abbie also gave him a modern hair tie; a simple black elastic that he accidentally shot across the room more than once while toying with it.

He looks out the window of her SUV, face alight with rapt fascination as he identifies familiar buildings and laments the ones that are gone.

“This town isn’t that big, so if anyone asks, you recently arrived from England,” she tells him in the car during a lull in his running commentary. “Crane?” she prompts, putting her hand over his.

“Hmm? Yes. Recently arrived from England,” he repeats, turning his attention away from making the power window go up and down and back to Abbie. “Forgive me; this is all far too fascinating.”

“I know, Baby,” she absently replies, waiting for the traffic to clear at a stop sign so they can cross. “We’ll figure out the rest of the story we’re gonna give people later. Jenny and Joe are going to come over for dinner and they’ll help us figure it all out.” She crosses the intersection, driving a few more blocks before turning into the Target parking lot.

“I have a feeling this might be, as they say, in Miss Jenny’s ‘wheelhouse’, yes?” Crane says, looking to her for confirmation.

“Damn skippy,” Abbie says with a nod. She pulls into a parking space. “Okay. I know you’ve been watching the house and spent all night on the internet catching up. But you’re still going to have questions.”

He nods. “Yes. I shall log them away to ask at the appropriate time,” he replies, understanding. He reaches over and caresses her cheek once. “It is not my wish to publicly embarrass you with my… bumbling ignorance, Lieutenant.”

She gives him a reassuring smile. “You’re hardly bumbling, and I wasn’t worried about that. I was just trying to prepare you for the culture shock that is retail shopping in the 21st Century, that’s all. We’ll probably go to more than one store, including the grocery store, so let me know if you get overwhelmed. The grocery store alone may blow your mind.”

She is surprised when a broad grin spreads across his face. “Excellent,” he says.

_Insatiable curiosity. Right._ “You ready for this?”

“With you by my side, I am ready for anything, Treasure,” he confirms, then attempts to exit the car without first unbuckling his seatbelt. Abbie tries not to laugh as he mutters a curse while reaching for the release button.

 

xXx

 

Crane wound up having a wonderful time at Target, so much so that Abbie had to literally pull him away from the video game systems on display in the electronics department.

She saw his lips purse over the prices. His eyebrows rose at the openly displayed women’s lingerie. His fingers twitched at the candy bars and other impulse items in the checkout lines. His eyes widened over the sales tax. His brow furrowed when she pulled out her credit card and swiped it in the machine.

Back in the car, she lets him rant the entire way to the market, indulgently listening to him rail on about taxes and free markets and capitalism and propriety. He finally stops to take a breath.

“But did you enjoy yourself?” she asks, finding a spot in the grocery store lot.

“Immensely,” he answers, eyes twinkling.

“Well, buckle up, Yankee Doodle, because you’re about to see more macaroni than you ever dreamed,” she says.

“Very droll,” he drily comments as they exit the car.

They walk inside, Abbie grabs a cart, and Crane immediately goggles at the produce section alone.

“God’s wounds,” he whispers. “This is breathtaking.” He starts to wander off, but she grabs his arm.

“Stay with me, Crane,” she says, then places his hands on the handle of the cart. “You can drive,” she declares, deciding that if she gives him a job, he’ll be less likely to wander off. She lost him once in Target, and he seems much more enchanted here at the Super Stop & Shop.

It winds up being the longest time Abbie has ever spent in a grocery store. It is also the most entertaining time she has ever had in one.

He has to read every placard on every piece of produce he doesn’t recognize. He stares at the meat case like a child on Christmas morning. He almost cries at the bakery. The motherly lady behind the deli counter gives him a free sample of the broccoli slaw, and when he declares it “delicious” and lauds her on her culinary skill, she gives a sample of the chicken salad.

Abbie has to pull him away before the woman tries to adopt him.

The fact that Crane is pushing the cart does nothing to prevent him from touching as many things as he is able. He reads labels, learning as much as he can. He is fascinated by the international offerings, and puzzles over the segregation of the organic items from the rest.

Despite all this, he does not ask for a single thing. If Abbie asks him for his opinion, he gives it; if she offers, he accepts or declines (more often accepting), but never once does he impose himself on her food shopping.

“Jenny and Joe said something about bringing over food for dinner, but I do want to cook for you,” Abbie tells him in the checkout lane. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Treasure,” Crane replies. “Once I have learned how to operate all the machines in the kitchen, I should like to return the favor and prepare a meal for you.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, you can cook?” she asks, impressed.

“Indeed I can,” he says, straightening his shoulders. “It is a worthy and useful skill that men and women alike should possess.”

She smiles up at him. “I would love to have you cook for me,” she says, then turns to hand her club card to the cashier.

“So would I,” the cashier quietly says, glancing at Abbie, then Crane, then back to Abbie, who laughs.

 

xXx

 

After a quick lunch of grilled cheese and fruit (in which Crane discovered he loves watermelon and mango), they spend the afternoon putting Crane’s new things away, addressing the questions he has about their shopping trip, and putting some of the items from his trunk on eBay. Abbie also researches some museums to see which ones might give her the best price for the things that are museum-quality, including Paul Revere’s silver candle holders.

Jenny and Joe arrive bearing orange and white bags from Popeye’s Chicken, which Crane devours with the gusto of a starving lion.

“New favorite?” Abbie asks, watching as he reaches for another chicken thigh.

“I believe it is a draw with the bacon we had this morning,” he answers. “This is by far the most delicious chicken I have ever had.”

“We’ll have to do some homemade one of these days,” Jenny suggests, and Abbie enthusiastically nods.

“Absolutely. Granny’s recipe is the best, hands down,” she agrees.

Dinner consumed and cleaned up, they move to the living room. Abbie curls up beside Crane on the couch with a notebook.

“So. Any ideas about what we can _officially_ tell people about Ichabod’s sudden appearance?” she asks.

They are all quiet for a moment, then Joe says, “Coma?”

“Hmm… it’s a thought,” Abbie says, tapping her pencil on the notebook. “But there would be hospital records for that, wouldn’t there?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Joe chuckles. “You’d think I would have thought of that.”

“You guys were somehow acquainted way back,” Jenny pipes up, snapping her fingers. “Otherwise, how can you explain your obvious closeness and comfort level with each other?” Abbie nods and looks up at Crane to see him doing the same. “You two already have this… _intimacy_ built that kind of contradicts your basic ‘love at first sight’ type story.”

“Well, that may _also_ have been the case, but you are correct, Miss Jenny,” Crane agrees. “So, Miss Mills and I have been taking part in a long-standing correspondence, which explains the intimacy between us.” He looks over to see Abbie jotting down a few notes. “And how did this correspondence commence?”

“Your family came here on vacation when you were a kid?” Abbie suggests. “It can’t be the other way around, because practically everyone knows Jenny and I didn’t go anywhere except for a never-ending string of foster homes.”

“You met at the beach,” Jenny declares. “We used to go to the beach a lot during the summers. When we were old enough, we’d go alone.”

“Yes,” Abbie says. “And maybe we saw each other a few times, and immediately connected.”

“And I could not return to England without first securing a way to correspond with my fascinating and beautiful new friend,” Crane adds, fondly gazing down at her.

“And since you lived in a very rural area, you didn’t have Internet. Once that became available,” Jenny says.

“Oh! And then when you were grown, you lived ‘off the grid’ until recently,” Joe chimes in.

“That means outside of regular society with no computers or phones or… actually, imagine your life in 1780, but now. Like that,” Abbie explains.

“Is this something people will actually do?” he asks, looking very interested.

“Oh yeah,” Joe answers. “Usually it’s paranoid hipsters who don’t want ‘The Man’ watching their every move, but, yeah.”

Crane stares blankly for a moment, then he looks at Abbie. “You shall have to explain that sentence to me another time,” he says.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to, but I’ll try,” she answers. “Okay,” she brightly continues. “What else? Why did he decide to come here?”

“Job opportunity?” Joe asks.

“He doesn’t have a job,” Jenny replies. “But maybe _wanting_ to get a job here?”

“Why must it be a career that prompts me to leave my…”

“Yurt,” Jenny supplies.

“Yes,” Crane agrees, pointing at Jenny, “leave my _yurt…_ whatever that is… to join Miss Mills in Sleepy Hollow?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Abbie says. “It’s simply a pretty common reason for a person to uproot their life and move. You don’t like it?”

“It would not be my first choice. However, I acknowledge that our options are somewhat limited and we are trying to keep the story as simple as possible,” he answers.

“Do you have any other ideas?” Abbie asks, reaching over to squeeze his hand. _He’s a romantic, that much is clear._

“What is wrong with my simply coming here to see you again?” he replies.

“Yes!” Jenny exclaims. “Your parents died and left you a surprising amount of money. Your correspondence with Abbie became more frequent due to her sabbatical, and you realized you _yearned_ to see her again, so you took a chance.”

Crane smiles. “Oh, that’s lovely,” he replies.

“He hoped his presence would help,” Jenny suggests.

“It has,” Abbie admits. She turns to Crane. “I… haven’t told you all about why I took a sabbatical,” she says. “I’m sure you’ve picked up some of it, but I wanted to wait to tell you in person.”

“Of course, Treasure,” he responds, lifting their joined hands and kissing her knuckles.

“Okay, so that’s the story,” Jenny declares. “You came here for Abbie.”

“Which is not terribly far from the truth,” Crane agrees.

“The important part is to just keep it simple. The more details we add, the more complicated and convoluted the story becomes,” Jenny remarks.

“Spoken like a woman who has spun a tale or two,” Joe knowingly remarks.

“Hey, it’s a job skill,” she replies, grinning at him.

Crane gives Abbie a questioning look, and she simply whispers, “Don’t ask.” She glances at the time, and notices it is getting late. She also noticed that Crane is looking a little tired, finally. She turns to Joe. “Joe, I wanted to ask you: can you get your hands on some immunizations for Crane? I’d be willing to bet he needs them.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Joe says. “And I agree, he probably does.”

“I’ve already got Hawley on getting your documents updated,” Jenny adds. “Kind of sucks, dying right before your 30th birthday, huh?”

“I had not given it much thought, to be honest,” Crane answers.

Abbie sees the look in Jenny’s eyes, and has to hide her smile. _She wants to throw him a birthday party._ “When is your birthday?” she asks. “I didn’t get to look at the papers very much.”

“Next month. The 18th of August,” he answers. “I suppose I will turn 30 then.”

“Plus 235,” Jenny adds, grinning.

“Yes, technically, but for practicality’s sake, he’s turning 30,” Abbie counters, giving her sister a look.

“Well, _duh_ ,” Jenny replies. “Okay. Once you get your immunizations, Hawley will be able to finish everything up.”

“What are these immunizations?” Crane asks.

“Modern medicine,” Abbie explains. “You can look it up later, but the basic gist is you get a shot of some medicine and it prevents you from getting certain diseases.”

“How brilliant!” Crane exclaims. “Which diseases?”

“Oh, measles, mumps, diphtheria… better get you a smallpox one, too,” Joe answers, ticking them off on his fingers. “You ever have chickenpox?”

“What?” Crane asks.

“Um… varicella,” Joe explains.

“Ah. Yes; I had it as a child. Why?”

“There’s a vaccine – an immunization – for it now, but since you had it, you don’t need it,” Joe answers. “And smallpox has actually been eradicated in most countries, but since you are from the 1700s, I think it would be best to make sure you get the shot.”

“Yes, I think so,” Crane responds. “I would not like to be responsible for singlehandedly resurrecting that awful disease due to simple negligence.”

“Good man,” Joe replies, then stands and stretches.

“Yeah, Ichy’s looking a bit wiped,” Jenny says, following suit. She gives Abbie a hug, whispering, “Have a good time,” in her ear, then hugs Crane as well.

“Will you be visiting tomorrow?” Crane asks as they walk to the door.

“Mmm, probably not,” Jenny answers. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so I won’t have any updates from Hawley on anything for you. And Joe has to work.”

“I hate working Saturdays,” Joe mutters, then hugs Abbie and shakes Crane’s hand. “But it’ll give me a chance to see about those shots anyway.”

“Thanks, guys,” Abbie says.

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate all the help you’ve given me. Us,” Crane adds.

Jenny gives Abbie a look that says, _Oh, you’re an ‘us’ now?_ , but just smiles and says, “You’re welcome, dude. Have a good night.”

 

xXx

 

Abbie feels very anxious as she changes for bed. She doesn’t know what kind of sleeping arrangement Crane is expecting, but she knows what she wants.

She just doesn’t know how to go about it without looking like a ho.

She takes a deep breath, then walks out into the hallway, heading to do her hair. Crane steps out of the bathroom, and they awkwardly stand, facing one another.

“Um…” Abbie starts. “Did you need… anything…? Pillows okay? Um… I’m sorry that the room isn’t better furnished…” She feels extremely awkward. The fact that he is wearing his robe and she doesn’t know what he has on under it is not helping. His eyes rake over her form, clad in a tank top and shorts. She can feel her nipples noticing his attention, even though she suddenly feels warmer.

“Oh. Yes. I was… yes. Yes, it’s fine,” he replies, unsuccessfully trying to hide his disappointment. His fingers twitch at his sides, further giving him away.

“Oh. I mean, if you want—”

“I do not wish to make assumptions—”

They stare at each other and try again.

“I didn’t know if—”

“Whatever you would—”

They both laugh a little nervously, Ichabod’s cheeks now red. He gestures for her to go ahead.

“Well, it’s not like we haven’t…” Abbie says, looking down to hide her sheepish smile.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair, which is hanging in long, loose waves that just reach his shoulders. “I will confess that the thought of spending the night alone does not appeal after 235 years of solitude. And, since I am given to understand that such things are no longer considered scandalous…”

“You learned a lot last night,” she replies, looking up again. She doesn’t notice his arm moving until she feels his long, warm fingers wrapping around hers.

He nods, lifting her fingers to his lips. “I have been observing things from afar for centuries, and yet I still look forward to my horizons being further broadened. Especially by you.” He turns her hand to kiss her palm.

She grabs his other hand and pulls him into her room. He closes the door behind them.

“I am willing to merely sleep beside you, if that is what you wish,” he lowly says, pulling her into his arms.

“I don’t wish that,” she whispers, her palms resting on his chest.

“Oh…” He shakily exhales. “Miss Mills,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Abbie,” she says, nuzzling the hollow of his throat as his hand slides down to cover her rear.

He drops his head and kisses the corner of her mouth. “Abbie,” he murmurs against her cheek.

“I like ‘Lieutenant’, too, though,” she breathes, her eyes drifting closed as he continues to drop soft, small kisses on her skin.

He presses a firm, ardent kiss to her lips, then says, “As endearments go, it is certainly unconventional, but I shall happily honor your request,” he kisses her again, “Lieutenant.”

Her fingers curl into the lapels of his robe and she tugs him the short distance to the already turned-down bed.

“What have you got on under here?” she quietly asks, her hands questing for the tie while he busies himself kissing her neck and working his hands under her shirt.

“Oh, I have missed the feel of your skin,” he murmurs. “The time we spent in the Dream Realm was far too short.”

“We have the rest of our lives,” she replies, opening his robe to discover he is wearing his boxer briefs. She slides her hands up his chest and pushes the garment from his shoulders. “You always sleep in your drawers?”

“Generally,” he answers, letting the robe drop. He wraps his arms around her. “Or nothing, if it is extremely warm,” he softly adds, his lips brushing her ear.

“Oh, too bad I have air conditioning,” she absently replies, lifting her hands to allow him to slide her tank top off.

“I might wear a nightshirt in winter,” he distractedly murmurs, the words faltering at the end when he drops her shirt to the floor. “Beautiful,” he whispers, his hands ghosting at her sides. He sits on the bed in front of her and leans forward, kissing a trail from her collarbone down to a breast. He surrounds her nipple with his mouth and she plunges her hands into his hair.

“Ahh,” she sighs, moving forward, needing to get closer. He grabs her and pulls her until she straddles his lap. She tilts her hips, pressing against his groin, drawing a groan from him.

He licks and sucks at her nipple, his hand caressing her other breast. Abbie gasps, dropping her head back, rocking against his shaft again.

Ichabod groans, then moves as quick as lightning, flipping them around so she is on her back beneath him.

“Oh!” she squeaks. She can feel his eyes rake over her body.

He runs his tongue over his lips and says, “You are truly a feast for the eyes.”

Her hands come up and run over his chest and down to his stomach. She slides her finger along the waistband of his boxer briefs, teasing him. He is slender but not scrawny, his body covered with lean, firm muscle. “My eyes are getting their fill too,” she says. Then, curious, she moves one hand up and touches the large scar on his chest from his battle wound.

He sharply inhales. “Abbie…” he groans.

She quickly removes her hand. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

He takes her hand and places it back on the ridge of pale skin crossing his left pectoral. “No,” he assures her. “It is more sensitive than I expected, but not in a painful way.”

She blinks. “Weird.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, then lowers himself over her, kissing her deeply. He startles just a little when she plunges her hands into his shorts, beginning to push them down, but quickly recovers.

“Not used to an assertive woman in bed?” she asks, almost completely certain that his Quaker (as far as he knew) wife would have been very demure and reserved in the marriage bed.

He hastily finishes removing his underwear, then tugs her shorts off. “Oh,” he exclaims, clearly unprepared to find no undergarments. “And you are correct,” he continues once he’s gathered his wits. “But I _quite_ like it.”

“Good,” Abbie says, pulling him back over her. “Wait a second though,” she says, remembering. He sits back, watching, as she rolls to the side and opens her nightstand drawer.

“Ah,” he says, seeing the box. “I was wondering about those.”

“Yeah, um… these are…” she says, holding a packet in her fingers.

“I know what they are,” he replies.

“You saw.”

He nods. “Prophylactics such as these did exist in my time,” he informs. “I assume they are of much better quality now.”

“Yeah,” she answers, relieved to not have to explain the condom to him. “They’re… pretty commonly used nowadays. By everyone.”

“Understood. You do not wish for pregnancy at this time,” he says, taking the condom from her and setting it within reach. He leans forward, prowling over her. “And,” he adds, kissing her, “until I have my _immunizations_ , it is a good idea to protect you from anything I may unknowingly be carrying.”

She pulls her lips away, surprised. “Did you look this up?”

His eyebrow rises. “I may have espied the name on the box and did some investigating last night while you slept.”

She laughs. “Come here, you,” she says, pulling him closer.

Abbie lets her hands go exploring, this time lower until she finds his shaft. “Oh, God,” she blurts, feeling the length and girth of him.

A smug smile crosses Crane’s face, and he flexes his hips, pressing into her hand. Then he kisses her and slips his hand down between her legs.

She sighs and writhes under his attention. His lips move back down to her breasts as his fingers find her most sensitive places like he’s done this with her hundreds of times.

“Ichabod…” she says, groping for the condom. “Mmm, I can’t wait any longer.” She tugs his hair and squeezes his shaft.

“Yes, Treasure,” he agrees, his voice husky. He watches with fascination as she opens the condom packet and places it over him with ease. “Thank you,” he whispers, then settles himself between her legs. She is much smaller than he, but he feels as though she was made to hold him there. “It has been… some time for me,” he tells her, suddenly unsure of himself in the face of her adoring gaze.

“Me too,” she tells him, sliding her hands up his chest to his face, bringing it down to kiss. “Ohmmm…” she moans when he slowly enters her, sliding easily into her slick warmth.

“Abbie.” Her name is a broken whisper falling from his lips as he presses his face into the side of her neck.

“Yes,” she answers. He begins moving, and she repeats the word, louder, lifting her hips to meet his strokes as he fills her again and again. She wouldn’t have thought he would fit so easily from the feel of him under her hand, but once again, they fit together like they were designed specifically for one another.

Ichabod seems to sense this as well. “Perfect,” he murmurs against her lips, his long back curved over her as his hips move in a tireless rhythm.

“Oh… mmm… yes, there… oh!” Fractured exclamations fall from Abbie’s lips in short gasps while her hands slide down his back to grab handfuls of his rear. His grunt of surprise brings a short giggle to her lips that quickly turns into another gasp of pleasure.

He groans, a low, gravelly sound that makes her stomach flip and pushes her closer to her climax. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and drops his forehead against hers, clearly trying to hang on.

“It’s okay, Baby,” she whispers. “Let go.”

“You are… not…”

“Almost…”

He tilts his head and captures her lips with his, thrusting a few more times, harder now, and a second later, she tugs his lower lip, then hoarsely cries out as she comes. He swallows her cries and follows two seconds after that, his entire body taut and trembling as he releases.

“Oh, my love…” The whisper is barely audible. Abbie hears it, but isn’t sure if he’s even aware he has said it. _I’ll think about that later,_ she decides, filing it away with his earlier remark about “love at first sight”. She wraps her arms around him, collapsed in a heap on top of her, and squeezes.

“Mmm,” she hums, feeling happy and sated.

“Oh.” Realizing where he is, he gently rolls off of her, disposes of the condom, then pulls her into the circle of his arms. “That was beautiful,” he quietly says, kissing the top of her head.

“Yeah, it was,” she agrees, nuzzling his chest, her fingers absently toying with the light covering of hair on his chest.

“I am sorry I could not hold on longer,” he apologizes after a minute.

She lifts her head. “Are you kidding me right now?” she asks. “That was…” she pauses, looking for the right words, “ _more_ than adequate. It was _good._ Especially considering you’ve been out of commission for over 200 years.” He looks away and she notices his cheeks coloring in the dim light of her small bedside lamp. “What?” she asks, brushing his hair away from his face, then pressing his cheek to encourage him to look at her again.

“I may have… prepared for this eventuality… in the shower last night,” he admits.

Abbie presses her lips together to try to stop the laughter from bubbling forward, but the effort is fruitless. She drops her head against his chest, shaking with laughter. “Oh, Baby, you are adorable.”

“I am glad you find this humorous,” Crane says, bemused.

She pushes herself upwards and kisses him. “You thought I would be horrified?”

“Well…” he starts, then stops again.

“What?” she asks, serious now.

“Considering the activity in which you engaged after the first time you stood in my path in the corridor, I must admit I am not _entirely_ surprised you are so nonplussed about my having… taken matters in hand, so to speak, in the shower,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Abbie sits bolt upright, eyes wide as she stares down at him. She hasn’t bothered to cover herself, and his eyes automatically drop to her chest for a split second before he wills them to meet her gaze.

“You said you never looked!” she exclaims; shocked, not angry.

Ichabod merely raises an eyebrow and says, “That does not mean I didn’t _listen_ , Treasure.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Ah,” Abbie sighs, turning slightly as she slowly wakes. Her body feels heavy, her limbs not completely willing to move.

Despite this fact, she feels _amazing._ Really good. Warm, happy, and… aroused?

“Mmm,” she hums, squirming, fighting between staying asleep and waking. She feels too good for this to be real; surely she is dreaming. But she tries to move again and finds she still can’t.

There is something heavy holding her hips.

“Oh…” she moans, the pleasurable sensations of her dream growing too much to be contained, and her eyes open halfway.

She immediately sees a head of long, wavy brown hair between her legs.

“Ichab…” Abbie croaks. “Oh, damn…”

Crane briefly looks up at her, then returns his full concentration to his task, his lips and tongue doing the most deliciously sinful things to her. Then he slides two fingers into her, curving them just so, and a moment later she explodes.

“Ah!” she exclaims, attempting to close her legs on his head. “Oh… oh, stop…” she gasps, reaching down to pull him up.

He gives her a smug look, licks his lips, then kisses her.

“Baby, it’s two a.m.,” she says, still tired.

“I am sorry, Treasure,” he replies. “I awoke and did not recognize where I was at first. Then, when I saw you, looking like a beautiful goddess beside me, I was overcome with the urge to slowly wake you in the most decadent manner I could contrive.”

She slowly nods, a smile gradually spreading across her face. “Wait, wasn’t doing that, like, illegal back in your day?” she asks.

He merely raises an eyebrow and gives her a wolfish grin.

She laughs and says, “I guess what goes on behind closed doors is nobody’s business but the participants’.”

“Quite,” he says. “And I do truly feel bad for waking you.”

“It’s all right,” she says, curling into his embrace. “I imagine it was pretty disorienting.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Yes. Eidetic memory or no, I was, as you said, disoriented. Seeing you there brought everything back into focus.”

“Good,” she replies, kissing his neck. She shifts closer and feels something hard against her hip. _He took care of me but not himself._

“In truth, I was a little afraid to fall asleep for fear I would not awake again,” he confesses. Then he groans when her hand wraps around his cock. “Oh… or that I would somehow find myself returned to my… non-corporeal form,” he manages just before he moves over her. He reaches over to the nightstand and pulls another condom from the box.

“I thought of that, too,” she confesses, reaching up to caress his face.

He kisses her and says, “I am quite pleased to be here and,” he pauses, putting the condom on as quickly as he can, “very much alive.”

“Apparently,” Abbie gasps as he enters her.

 

xXx

 

When Abbie wakes the next time, the sun is up and Ichabod is nowhere in sight. She can see the rumple where he slept, and when she places her hand on it, it is still slightly warm.

“Ichabod?” she calls, sitting up.

A moment later, she hears a muffled flush. She lies back down and decides to pretend she’s still asleep, just to see what he does.

Of course, she can’t help peeping her eye open to see him walking into the room, wanting to see what he looks like in the light.

She’s not disappointed. And she almost gets caught. But she wills herself to be still, her body heavy, her face relaxed.

Then, just when she thinks he’s going to leave her to sleep, she feels the bed dip behind her as he climbs back in.

She waits.

Then she feels his lips softly press her shoulder and his arm snake around her waist as he spoons behind her.

He nuzzles the back of her neck, then brushes his lips against the sensitive skin there, and whispers, “I know you’re awake.”

Abbie smiles, unable to stop it now, but she neither moves nor opens her eyes.

“I heard you call my name,” he presses, nipping the edge of her earlobe.

“I was talking in my sleep,” she replies, stubbornly keeping her eyes closed.

“Hmm,” he says, his hand moving up to nestle between her breasts, “as much as I love the idea of you crying out my name in your sleep,” he kisses her neck, “I somehow doubt the validity of your claim.”

She unconsciously presses her hips back, nestling her butt against his groin, and he groans.

“Minx,” he rumbles.

She giggles and finally turns her head, opening her eyes. “Hi,” she greets.

“Good morning, Treasure,” he returns, kissing her cheek, mindful of her wish to first brush her teeth.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, turning around now.

“Like the dead,” he answers, his eyebrow quirking up. “You?”

“I slept really good,” she replies. “Oh. I need to…”

He opens his arms to let her out. She grabs his robe and quickly throws it on before walking out and to the bathroom. _If I had to change one thing about this place, I would have an en suite bathroom,_ she thinks in the hallway.

She brushes her teeth before she returns to her room. His toothbrush was wet, so he must have also done so. She also takes the scarf off of her hair and throws it into a quick twist to keep it somewhat tidy.

“Are you hungry?” Abbie asks when she returns.

“Yes, but I usually am,” Ichabod confesses. “My mother used to lament the amounts of food I would consume in my youth.”

“And yet you are that skinny,” she says, sitting on the bed. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“My dear, you have an enviable figure,” he reassures her. “If you knew how many appreciative glances – nay, stares – you drew whilst we were out marketing yesterday…”

She smiles and looks down. “Thanks. I work hard at it though. My job helps me stay active. I jog… well, sometimes I do, and do yoga. And I watch what I eat.”

“Yoga… fascinating practice, that,” he says, reaching out and taking her hand.

“You know about yoga?” she asks, surprised.

“I studied a wide range of cultures all around the world,” he answers, still toying with her fingers. “Also one female resident of this house fancied herself a devotee.”

“Really? Enjoy watching, did you?” she teases.

His eyes widen. “Certainly not. She was terrible at it,” he answers.

She laughs, then leans forward and kisses him. “Come on, let’s go find some breakfast,” she says.

 

xXx

 

“I want to tell you about why I am taking this sabbatical,” Abbie says, curling against Crane’s side. They wound up back in bed after breakfast, because Ichabod wanted to take a shower and decided Abbie should join him. After plenty of messing around in between actually showering, they tumbled back into bed to finish what they started.

“If you are not ready, I can wait,” he responds, kissing her forehead.

“Thank you, but I want to tell you. It doesn’t feel right, you not knowing the full story. I know you’ve heard bits and pieces, but I still feel like I’m keeping something from you,” she says.

“I understand,” he replies with a nod, touched that she knows he is sensitive about secrets after what he’s been through. “Though this is not something you are intending to keep from me with malicious intent or because you fear my reaction, so it is a different situation.”

“True,” she agrees, though she’s not quite sure how he came to that conclusion. _Maybe he heard enough of the bits and pieces I’ve discussed with Jenny._ She hesitates another moment, deciding how to start. “Macey Irving is a young lady who just turned 18. I saved her life, but she is paralyzed from the waist down now because I didn’t get to her in time.” She looks up at him and sees him listening with his full attention, not wishing to interrupt. Listening without judging.

She puts her head back down. “Her father, Frank, was my captain when I was with the Sheriff’s Department,” she elaborates. “Shortly after I joined the FBI, Frank exposed a big drug ring and was key in helping us break it up… Sleepy Hollow was a key stop on a route transporting illegal drugs between New York City and Canada… and the leader, a man named Atticus Nevins, took it personally when his people were busted. He kidnapped Macey and threatened to kill her if we didn’t back off and release his men.”

“What a deplorable character,” Crane softly comments.

“Yeah. He was a real charmer,” Abbie drily agrees. “Frank turned to us – the FBI – for help, knowing this was bigger than the SHPD. We had worked together on the drug bust, too, so everyone was invested in getting Macey home safely. But we fully took over, and because of my connection to Frank, I was Point. Um, sort of the lead person for this case under the director,” she explains.

“Reynolds?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want the position. I was happy to be on the team, but I didn’t want to be in charge. I told him I was personally involved with the Irving family and didn’t want that to interfere. He basically told me he knew I could keep my feelings out of it,” she continues, unsuccessfully trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice towards the end.

“Treasure, may I ask…?”

She sighs. “Reynolds and I had a brief affair during FBI training. We were in the same class. I broke it off before graduation. It was fun, but… he was more into me than I was him. And I didn’t want to get involved with another agent.”

“Hence the remark about keeping your feelings closed off,” he guesses.

“You are remarkably intuitive,” she replies.

“Well, 235 years of doing nothing but observe will develop certain skills,” he reasons.

“Right. Anyway, after graduation, I figured I’d never see him again, and if so, only rarely. Imagine my surprise when he walks in as my new _boss_ after six months,” she says.

“You must have been quite peeved, especially considering the man was previously your peer,” he remarks.

“Well, there was an element of that, but mostly it was like, ‘Oh shit.’ My previous director was killed on an assignment, and somehow Danny – Reynolds – was chosen as his replacement,” she explains. “ _Anyway,_ ” she pointedly presses on, “I reluctantly agreed to head up the team; what choice did I have, really? I… I can’t go into all the details, because the FBI is very strict about that kind of thing and I also,” she sighs, “really don’t want to rehash them, but the condensed version is there was a deadline. Nevins gave a specific time to meet and collect his men, so we set up a sting. A trap. Things went sideways, and Macey got shot in the lower back because I misjudged and didn’t draw my weapon fast enough. He got her right in the spine.”

“And now Miss Macey is alive, but unable to walk?”

“Yeah,” she answers, her voice soft. “Macey and her parents don’t hold me responsible. In fact, they are… ridiculously grateful. To the point that it made me a little uncomfortable. Because I felt like I failed them.”

Crane simply holds her, listening, his hands rubbing comforting circles on her back.

“My guilt was affecting my attitude and quality of work. So Reynolds basically _told_ me to take the summer off. Said the mandate came from his superior. It was essentially ‘take a break or take off.’ So I took a break.”

“By ‘take off’, they meant…?”

“Tender my resignation. If I can’t handle the job, I shouldn’t do the job. And they’re right. I shouldn’t do it if I don’t have the balls for it. I also got the distinct impression that if I don’t have my head straight by Labor Day, I should stay gone,” she says. “So I bought this house as a project to give my mind something else to do. A little therapy via manual labor.”

“Has it helped?” he asks.

She lifts up and looks down at him. “Between this place and you, my brain has been pretty busy,” she says, smiling at him. “I haven’t had the time or energy to punish myself.”

“But have you had the time or energy to forgive yourself? Because it sounds like Miss Macey and Captain Irving have done,” he gently asks.

She looks up, out the window, at the trees swaying in the breeze, at the bright, sunny day, at the room she has fixed up to her liking. She looks down at the wonderful, improbable man in her bed. He has done little more than listen and ask a few questions, but never once did he offer advice or try to solve her problem for her. She didn’t even realize that was exactly what she needed until now. “I think so,” she says. “I don’t feel that uncomfortable hot knot in my stomach anymore when I think about the case or Macey. For the first time in months, I feel… content. Happy. And I have you to thank for it.”

He smiles, but waves his hand. “I cannot accept all the credit, Treasure,” he gently protests.

“Well, you’ll accept _some_ of my gratitude,” she replies, tilting her head up to kiss his neck, her fingers stroking his beard.

“Oh, gladly,” he agrees, then leans down and kisses her. “Have you corresponded with the Irving family recently?”

“No… I owe them an email or a call, I know,” she confesses. “Macey sent me an email not too long ago telling me all about Tucson – that’s in Arizona, which wasn’t even a state back in your day – and how much she loves it there and that she’s going to college in the fall. I need to write her back.”

“I am sure Captain Irving understands your plight, being a man of law as well,” Crane reasons.

“Yeah, he does. He’s a great guy; you would like him. Very straightforward, very no-nonsense, but still likable. I always knew where I stood with him. We all did,” Abbie says.

“Sounds like a very good man. And do you know where you stand with Director Reynolds?” he asks.

“Usually,” she sighs. “I sometimes get the impression that he still has… romantic feelings for me.”

“And how do _you_ feel, Abbie?” he asks.

She props herself up on her elbows and looks down at him again. “I only have romantic feelings for one person, and it isn’t Daniel Reynolds. Not at all,” she answers.

Ichabod smiles more broadly than Abbie has yet seen. He pulls her close and says, “Good,” before rolling them so he is over her once more. Then he seals his lips over hers in a passionate kiss that tells her in no uncertain terms that he feels the same.

 

xXx

 

“Rolling…”

“Rolling…”

“Rolling…”

“Rolling…”

“Rolling on the river…”

“Rolling on the riv—”

“Yeah, we’re rolling…”

“Rolling…”

Abbie and Ichabod’s duet along with Ike and Tina is interrupted by Abbie’s phone.

“Hey, Joe,” she answers as Crane hurries over to turn the volume down on the music. He resumes painting the dining room while Abbie talks to Joe.

“We found a nurse who’s willing to come out to your house and not only give Crane his shots, but check him over as well,” Joe says.

“Um, is that a good idea?” Abbie asks.

“Well, Jenny recommended her,” he reassures her.

“Jenny knows her?”

“Yeah, apparently she’s who she sees when she needs, um, _discreet_ treatment. For work mishaps,” Joe carefully explains.

“Right,” Abbie replies, trying not to sigh as she wishes for the thousandth time her sister would find legitimate employment. “So she’ll, what, stitch closed stab wounds and remove bullets without asking questions, is that it?”

“Something like that,” Joe answers.

“Jenny is going to be pissed that she missed it,” Abbie says, chuckling.

“Yeah, well, when Hawley tells her he needs her to go to D.C., she goes,” Joe says with a sigh. “Anyway, Dora’s shift ends in half an hour and she’s agreed to follow me out to the house. You guys going to be… available?” he asks.

“Sure. We’re actually _working_ , but thanks for the implication that we’re living in a den of iniquity over here,” Abbie answers.

“That was this morning,” Crane comments, and Abbie snorts a laugh.

“What was that?” Joe asks.

“Nothing. See you in a bit. And thanks again,” she says.

“Hey, no problem,” he replies.

Abbie disconnects the call, then picks up her paint roller. “Joe is bringing a nurse over to give you a house call,” she tells him.

“Ah, very good,” he says. “Is that normal in this era?”

“No,” she answers. “But apparently Jenny, once again, has the sweet hook-ups.”

He pauses, processing the phrase, then says, “Very good.”

“You followed that?” she asks, walking towards him. She reaches up and tucks a stray tendril of hair behind his ear.

“I believe I gleaned the basic meaning, yes,” he assures her, then kisses her forehead. “Miss Jenny has helpful connections,” he translates

“You got it, Baby,” she says. “You are super good at that,” she adds, noting his tidy work painting around the windows. “I always have to put tape up.”

“Thank you. I have always had remarkably steady hands,” he replies. “Not to mention the fact that your clever blue tape did not exist in my day. So we had no option but to take great care when painting around edges.”

“Good point,” she agrees. “In any case, we’ll get done faster _not_ having to tape everything off.” She starts to walk away to resume her own painting, but then she stops. “I mean… assuming you want to… stay around and… help…” she hesitantly says, suddenly unsure of what the two of them are doing and where they are heading. They just sort of jumped into this with both feet, never once truly discussing anything long-term.

She feels him behind her. “Abbie,” he softly says, “I would like nothing more than to stay here with you for as long as you will have me.” He places one hand on her shoulder, then kisses the crown of her head, which is currently covered by a kerchief.

She turns around. “You… you don’t think you’ll want to strike out on your own once you have all your shots and papers?” she asks, looking up at him.

“Treasure,” he says, wanting to erase the unsure look from her face as soon as possible, “there is nothing for me out there in the world without you.”

“That’s a pretty big statement,” she whispers, her heart speeding up.

He is still holding his brush in one hand, but he wraps his free one around her waist and pulling her close. “I would make a bigger one, if you will allow it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing her temple. “It is not my wish to overwhelm you, but I think you may already know the words that are all but bursting from my lips.”

She nods, turning her face into his neck, her paint roller hanging from her hand. “I love you, too, Ichabod,” she quietly says, then looks up at him with uncharacteristic shyness.

“I have never heard sweeter words,” he whispers, then kisses her. “I love you, Abbie,” he says, needing to say the actual words, then kisses her again. “I know how closely you guard your heart, Treasure,” he adds, briefly touching his nose to hers, “so I consider myself immensely fortunate to be the person to whom you have opened it.” He kisses her, then rests his forehead against hers. “I promise you I will not mistreat it.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, blinking back tears, unsure what she did to deserve this level of devotion. She wishes she could craft beautiful declarations the way he does, but she has always been better at _doing_ instead of _saying._ So she lifts up on tiptoe and kisses him with everything she has.

“We should get back to work before we prove Joseph’s assumption correct,” Ichabod says, reluctantly pulling away from Abbie.

“Yeah,” she says, laughing. “That would be embarrassing.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “Oh dear,” he adds when she turns around to return to her wall.

“What?” she asks.

“It seems I was not as good at keeping my paintbrush away from you as I thought,” he says. “On your derrière,” he adds, pointing.

She twists and looks down, then laughs. “No problem. These are my painting clothes,” she explains, then shows him another spot on the front, which matches the kitchen.

“Excellent,” he replies, relieved. He turns the music back up, and Marvin Gaye’s voice surrounds them as they work. A few minutes later, Crane exclaims, “‘Get it on’? Is that truly considered a romantic turn of phrase?”

All Abbie can do is laugh.

 

xXx

 

Forty minutes later, the doorbell rings, and Abbie and Crane pause their painting, wrapping their roller and brush in plastic shopping bags to keep them from drying out.

“Ingenious,” Crane comments with a bemused smile.

Abbie opens the door to see Joe standing beside a very pretty woman with dark hair and olive skin. “Hi,” she greets, then steps aside to allow them to enter.

“Abbie Mills, this is Pandora Marcus,” Joe introduces.

“Please, call me Dora,” she says, smiling and shaking Abbie’s hand.

“And this is Ichabod Crane,” Joe adds.

Crane gives Dora a slight bow, smiles, and says, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Nurse Marcus. Thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to pay us a visit.”

“You’re welcome,” she answers, giving Abbie a brief glance.

“You’ll get used to him,” Abbie chuckles. “Living room all right for what you need to do?”

“Yes, that will be fine,” Dora answers.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Abbie offers.

“No, thank you,” she declines.

“Joe?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

They file into the living room, and Dora begins by taking Crane’s vitals.

“I did that already,” Joe offers, sitting in a chair, watching. Abbie, mindful of the fresh paint on her butt, remains standing.

“Yes, and now I’m doing it,” Dora calmly returns. “Ichabod,” she says. “That is an unusual name.” She looks up at him. “Speaking as one who also bears an unusual name, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes, returning her smile. “It is a family name with which I was unfortunately saddled. At least you are able to shorten yours.”

“Thankfully,” she agrees. “My parents were scholars of ancient history and also had… interesting senses of humor.” She begins withdrawing various vials and syringes, then adds, “I have a sister named Persephone and a brother named Achilles.”

“I imagine your brother is happy they did not choose to call him Hades,” Crane suggests. “Or Oedipus.”

She laughs and says, “My sister and I are thankful that neither of us was called Aphrodite.” Then she picks up a tourniquet. “May I have your arm please? I’d like to draw some blood.”

“Certainly. May I ask for what purpose?”

She glances at Joe, who gives her a reassuring nod, then says, “It will tell us a lot about your health. Whether you have any diseases that need treatment. That sort of thing.”

“Very good,” he says, watching with fascination as she swabs his arm, then pokes into a swollen vein with a fine needle. She fills several vials, then bandages his elbow.

She gives him several shots and checks him over a little more thoroughly than Joe had done, looking into his eyes, ears, and throat.

“You appear to be in very good heath, Ichabod,” she declares. “Especially considering you’ve had no immunizations. Joe tells me you were living a rather rustic life in England before moving here to be with Abbie?”

“Yes,” Crane answers, remembering their story. “I am slowly becoming accustomed to the wonders of technology,” he adds with a smile. “It amazes me that such small things can hold so much information and do so many things.”

“People think they can’t live without them, and here you are, living proof that it is possible,” she replies. “Well, I hope you find America to your liking, and I’ll make sure to send over the results of the blood tests as soon as I can,” she says.

Abbie steps over, one of her cards in her hand. “Here,” she says. “My home email is on the back, and you can reach me by cell any time.”

“Thank you,” Dora replies, pocketing the card.

“You’re not going to get into any trouble with the lab, are you?” Abbie asks as they walk to the door.

Pandora smiles. “No. My husband runs the lab. It won’t be an issue,” she replies.

Joe chuckles, and Crane remarks, “It seems Miss Jenny isn’t the only one with the ‘sweet hook-ups’.”

 

xXx

 

Just as they are cleaning up from their painting, Abbie suddenly looks up and says, “Oh, shit.”

“What is wrong, Lieutenant?” Crane asks, walking over to where she is washing paintbrushes in the sink. He looks over her shoulder, thinking her exclamation was prompted by something she saw there.

“I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer. I was going to cook for you tonight,” she says. She dries her hands and walks over to the fridge, opening the freezer. She pulls out a whole chicken, which is frozen solid. She taps it on the counter and frowns at Crane.

“Ah. And I take it by your demeanor that there is no quick way to thaw that bird,” he guesses, glancing at the microwave.

“No, that is one thing we haven’t figured out yet,” she confirms. “Another thing the microwave cannot do well, I’m afraid.” She picks up the chicken and places it in a bowl, then sets it on the counter. “Tomorrow then.”

“I will, of course, gladly eat whatever you choose to serve me,” he says.

She stares at him for a long moment. “I know you _probably_ don’t mean that to sound as suggestive as it does,” she finally says.

He blushes and drops his gaze, embarrassed but amused. He regroups a second later, clearing his throat and saying, “Well, it wasn’t my intention,” he pauses, stalking towards her now, “but if you are on the menu, it would be most… ungentlemanly of me to refuse.” He is standing right in front of her, trapping her between his body and the counter.

She looks up at him, her lips parted. Her tongue darts out to moisten them, and his eyes track the movement, darkening as they do so. “I think you need to try Chinese food,” she says, her voice breathy.

He blinks. “What?”

Her lips twitch, slowly curling into a smile. “Chinese food. King’s Wok delivers,” she explains. Then she quickly lifts up on tiptoe to peck his lips once before ducking out under his arm.

“Wait! Abbie…”


	11. Chapter 11

“Lieutenant!”

Abbie hurries into the living room, wondering what has gotten Crane so excited.

“What is it?” she asks, going over to where he is seated at the laptop. _Maybe he’s found some important tidbit of information_. He’s been digging into every text of Benjamin Franklin’s he can find, hoping to unravel the mystery behind why the eccentric founding father never followed through with his plan to revive his protégé. She leans down beside him, kissing his cheek.

“This tiny kitten is trying to catch the dog’s frantically wagging tail,” he says. “You simply must see it.” He clicks the _Play_ button, then looks up to watch her reaction.

Abbie giggles appreciatively, then slowly closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Baby, this is cute—”

“It is _adorable,_ ” he interjects.

“Yes, but I thought you were doing research,” she says.

“I needed a break from poring over Franklin’s writings,” he says, tilting his head this way and that to stretch his neck. “And I may have fallen down a bit of a YouTube rabbit hole of cat and dog videos.”

She laughs, then kisses his temple. “Well, you’re getting the lingo down, I’ll give you that. Jenny and Joe should be here any minute anyway,” she says.

“I look forward to seeing the documents that the mysterious Mr. Hawley has created for me,” he says, closing the laptop and scooting his chair back. “Are you certain he can be trusted with this important task, Treasure? I have not heard much about this man that inspires confidence,” he asks, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into his lap.

“Well, Jenny, says he’s the best fake document man in the entire northeast,” she answers, kissing him. “And, while I don’t trust Hawley any further than I can throw him, I do trust Jenny.”

He nods, then kisses her in return, lingering a but longer than she had. “Then I shall trust as well,” he decides, briefly nuzzling her nose. “It must be difficult for you, being an officer of the law, to turn a blind eye to the things Miss Jenny must do that are… outside of polite society,” he comments, caressing her face.

She nods, then leans into his hand. “I am able to turn a blind eye because I don’t let her tell me anything about what she does,” she confesses. “I mean she tells me _some_ things, but not anything that would get either of us in trouble.”

“‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise’,” he quotes.

Abbie sighs and rests her head against his shoulder. “This – getting your documents – is actually the first time I _truly_ am aware of anything illegal going on. I mean I always suspected, but…” she sighs. “It’s just Jenny is the only family I have. I love my job, but… I know where my priorities are. If I need to remain willfully ignorant to preserve both my job and her… freedom, then that’s what I need to do.” He squeezes her and kisses the top of her head. “Not saying I _like_ it, but it is what it is.”

The ring of the doorbell is immediately followed by the sound of the door opening and Jenny’s voice calling, “Hey, anyone home?”

“In here,” Abbie replies, reluctantly rising from Crane’s lap.

“What smells good?” Jenny asks, sniffing the air.

“I’m baking a chicken,” Abbie answers as Crane steps up behind her, nodding greetings to Jenny and Joe.

“Smells great. Too bad Joe and I have plans,” Jenny says.

“Who says y’all were invited to dinner anyway?” Abbie retorts, laughing.

Jenny joins her sister’s laughter, then passes her a thick envelope. “Here.”

Abbie takes the packet and moves to the couch.

“Do you have any coffee?” Joe asks. “I’m dead on my feet. Haven’t slept since I got off work.”

“I think there’s some left,” Abbie says. “Help yourself.” She passes the envelope to Crane.

“Thank you.” He takes it, carefully opening the flap and withdrawing a pile of documents and cards. He peruses each one, brows furrowed. Finally, he looks up at Abbie and says, “I have no idea what these are supposed to look like, but it appears Mr. Hawley has made me a British citizen, not an American one.” He passes the items to Abbie.

She inspects them as well. _Damn, these are really good. I would never know they are fake._ “Well, that’s probably for the best, considering your contrived backstory,” she says. “If you just got here from England, you wouldn’t be an American citizen.”

Joe returns with two cups and hands one to Jenny. “But with all these things, you can _become_ an American citizen,” he says.

Crane’s eyes light up. “I can?”

“Sure,” Jenny says. “It’s a… process, but it’s definitely do-able. Oh, hey! You know what would help move it along a little? If you guys got ma—”

“How much did these documents send us back?” Abbie loudly interjects, talking over her sister before she puts ideas about marriage in Crane’s head. _Yes, we love each other, but let’s walk before we run._ “I know Hawley didn’t do all this for free.”

Jenny raises an eyebrow at her sister’s interruption, but answers, “Crane’s flintlock pistols. And _no,_ I didn’t give them to Hawley. I sold them to a private collector and used most of it to pay Hawley.”

“And the rest?” Abbie asks.

“I put it in the bank account we opened for Crane,” Jenny says. “Getting pretty healthy, thanks to eBay and the National Museum of American History.”

Abbie had managed to get in contact with the Smithsonian and found they were very interested in many of the items that were in Crane’s tomb. The only things they had agreed were definitely off the table are Crane’s sword, which he wished to keep for sentimental value, and Franklin’s journal that was in the wall. The journal would fetch a pretty penny, but the information in it was far too sensitive to let out into the world, so they put it in a safety deposit box for safekeeping.

“That is good news, but I still should like to find some sort of gainful employment,” Crane says, idly thumbing through his paperwork, looking at the updated diplomas from Oxford boasting advanced degrees in History and Classics.

“Have you talked to Caroline yet?” Jenny asks, remembering Abbie had mentioned it.

“No, I haven’t had a chance. And I wanted to talk to Ichabod first and see how he felt about it,” she answers.

“Who is this Miss Caroline?” Crane asks.

“My realtor, but she’s very involved with the local American Revolution re-enactment group,” Abbie explains, smiling when Crane’s eyebrows rise. “The group is affiliated with the local history museum. I was going to see if she knew anyone we could talk to about maybe getting you a job there.”

“It is a very attractive thought. I should like to visit this museum, even if I do not gain employment there,” he responds.

“I’ll call her tomorrow morning,” Abbie says.

“What did you do… you know, before?” Jenny asks. “I mean besides soldiering and spying.”

“I was a professor of History, albeit for a very short time. I fear teaching methods have changed considerably since then, so that likely would not be a path to pursue,” he says.

“I don’t think you’re ready to deal with the youth of today,” Jenny agrees. “Plus there is extra certification you’d need to get if you wanted to teach.”

“Maybe try the library if the museum doesn’t work out,” Joe suggests.

“That would also be acceptable,” Crane replies with a nod. “Thank you all so much for your help. You’ve all been so wonderful to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Abbie replies, warmly smiling at him before picking up the passport. She looks at it, noting how Hawley even thought to stamp it as though Crane came through customs. _Gotta give him points for being thorough._

“Speaking of school, I’ve been thinking about going back,” Jenny says, sipping her coffee. “Might study archaeology.”

Abbie sharply looks up, pleasantly surprised. “Won’t that piss off Hawley?” she asks.

“Exactly what line of work are you in, Miss Jenny? I have not been able to discern exactly how you make your living,” Crane says.

Jenny hesitates a moment, then says, “I… procure rare antiquities, and Hawley sells them to collectors and other interested buyers. I get a percentage of those sales. Lately I’ve begun suspecting he isn’t being completely honest with me, and it’s pissing _me_ off.”

“That was helpfully vague, thank you, Jenny,” Abbie comments. “And while I am 200% on board with you going back to school, you are going to need to break the news to Hawley as gently as possible.”

“Aw, and I was planning on channeling my inner Cartman and just going, ‘Screw you guys, I’m going home,’” Jenny says, laughing.

“Don’t worry about Hawley,” Joe calmly says, waving his hand. “He and I had a bit of a _thing_ the summer after I graduated high school – before I went into the Marines. Um, let’s just say he tends to run off at the mouth when he sleeps. And other times as well. I’ve got all kinds of dirt on him and he knows it.”

“Wait, Hawley’s not straight?” Abbie asks. “Here I thought he was the walking, talking embodiment of ‘No Homo’.”

Jenny and Joe laugh. “He’s bi,” Joe explains. “Bisexual. So am I,” he tells Crane. “I don’t know if that was a thing back in your day, but it means we’re attracted to both men and women.”

Crane nods. “I am familiar with the concept of… what is it now called? Alternative sexualities, yes,” he says. “I do not fall into that category myself,” he adds, absently taking Abbie’s hand, “but love works in mysterious ways, and I am not one to judge who the heart chooses.”

“Very progressive viewpoint for a dude from the 1700s,” Jenny says, raising her coffee cup in a toast. She looks at Joe and adds, “And he’s pan, not bi.”

“Really?” Joe asks. “Huh.”

“Yeah, the person he’s dating right now prefers ‘they’ pronouns,” Jenny says. “Really nice person. Which makes me wonder what they’re doing with Nick Hawley.”

Abbie and Joe laugh, and Crane looks a little puzzled. “There’s a reason why you haven’t met Hawley, Ichabod,” Abbie says. “He’s a bit… abrasive.”

“He’s a douche,” Joe says. “Oh, um…”

Crane holds up his hand. “I understand that term, thank you,” he says. “And while Mr. Hawley sounds like a scoundrel, it appears he creates first-rate forgeries, and for that, I am grateful.”

 

xXx

 

“Mmm, smells delicious, Treasure,” Ichabod says, coming up behind her in the kitchen and tucking his nose into her neck. “And the dinner smells quite good as well,” he adds, kissing the side of her neck while she laughs.

“Thank you,” she answers, leaning her head back to allow him better access to her neck. “How is your research going? Or are you back onto cat videos?”

He chuckles, then says, “I was watching a fascinating collection of things called ‘satisfying videos’. They were… as advertised. I especially enjoyed the ones with food production.”

She turns around, lifts up on tiptoe, and kisses him. “I can see how you would like those,” she replies.

“Indeed,” he agrees, placing his hands on her waist. He guides her three steps to her left so she is in front of a clear space on the counter, then lifts her so she is seated on the elevated surface. “There,” he murmurs, settling himself between her legs before leaning forward to kiss her.

His hands slide down her thighs, stopping on her knees. He then nudges them open wider so he can move in closer, his lips never leaving hers. She winds her arms up around his shoulders, one hand sliding into his hair.

“Baby,” she manages, only able to pull her lips from his for a second before he captures them again. “If you keep this up, we…” she pauses again, then encourages him to move back to her neck, “we won’t get our dinner.”

“Well, that _would_ be a shame,” he murmurs against her skin, placing a few more kisses there before reluctantly pulling away. “I am looking forward to sampling your culinary skill, Abbie,” he adds.

“Well, I’m no gourmet, but I do a fair job,” she demurs, moving her hands to stroke his beard. “How are you doing?” she asks, her brow furrowing as she looks at him.

“Well enough, I think,” he answers, helping her down from the counter. “My years of observing this house has helped with the… culture shock… tremendously. And you, of course.” He takes her hand and kisses it. “You have been a godsend.”

She grants him a small smile. “You’ll tell me if you need anything, right? Any question, any problem, don’t hesitate to ask.”

He kisses her forehead. “I will,” he assures her. He did not need her to remind him as she has already told him this, but if it makes her feel better to do so, he will give her the reassurance she seeks.

The timer goes off just then, and he releases her to retrieve their dinner. “See?” she asks as she bends to open the oven. “We wouldn’t have had time for anything more than a quickie.”

“Those do have their merit,” he quietly says, watching her backside as she works.

“What was that?” she asks, turning. “Eyes are up here, by the way,” she adds with a knowing smile.

“Hmm?” he counters, dragging his eyes up her form until they meet hers.

She laughs, then points at a stack of dishes. “Would you set the table?” she asks, deciding to distract him with a task.

“Of course,” he answers, picking them up and carrying them to the small bistro table in the kitchen. Abbie hadn’t had the time to find a proper dining room table, so her dining room remains mostly empty.

She doesn’t mind eating in the kitchen, especially since it’s only the two of them. It is much more intimate sitting with him at her small table. She turns and looks back at him and smiles, seeing him lighting candles. _Where did he find those?_ she absently wonders before returning to the chicken.

“All right,” she says a few minutes later, carrying the platter to the table. The chicken is surrounded by carrots, celery, and potatoes, which she roasted alongside the bird, she has fresh bread from the bakery, and Crane helpfully opened the wine for her.

“This looks sumptuous, Abbie,” he declares, devouring the repast with his eyes.

“Help yourself,” she says, holding her hand out. As soon as the words are out, she wonders if he was expecting her to serve him, but before she can inquire, he picks up the knife and slices off a section of meat.

There is little conversation at first, as Ichabod seems intent on paying the food its proper respect. He makes little noises of appreciation from time to time, and Abbie can’t help thinking they sound very similar to sounds he makes during some of their other activities.

She hides her smile behind her wine glass, watching him enjoy his meal.

“Abbie, may I ask—” He stops himself, reminding himself he doesn’t need to ask permission. “To what was Miss Jenny referring earlier when you interrupted her?”

Abbie blinks, trying to remember. “Interrupted her?”

“Yes. We were discussing my gaining citizenship and she mentioned there was something we could ‘get’ that would help expedite the process,” he explains.

“Oh,” she says. _Crap crap crap._ “Um, yeah. That. She was going to suggest we get married,” she quickly answers, then takes a bite of chicken and looks away.

“Oh,” he echoes, his eyes widening. “Oh, dear.”

Abbie isn’t sure what to make of his reaction. He seems to be pretty freaked out about it. Maybe even unhappy. She was half-expecting him to immediately drop to one knee and propose on the spot.

 _But did I_ want _him to do that?_ She swallows her chicken, then takes a drink of her wine, risking a glance at Ichabod as she does so. She tries to think of something to say, but her mind is a swirl of confusion. She just wants to bolt and think things over. Alone.

“Abbie?” he hesitantly asks.

“I’m fine,” she manages, then sets her fork down. “I’m… done. Eating. You still working on yours?”

“No, I am also finished,” he answers. “It was quite delicious.”

She picks up her plate and takes it to the sink, and he follows with his, perplexed.

“Thank you,” she mutters, taking his plate.

He returns to the table to bring the rest, trying to give her some space, hoping she’ll say something.

He places the dishes in the dishwasher while she works on removing the meat from the rest of the chicken. “Abbie,” he says, noticing that she seems to be punishing the bird for some imagined crime. He gently places his hands over hers and she stiffens.

“What?” she asks, extracting her hands and continuing to tear apart the chicken.

“You are upset with me,” he says. “I am not _entirely_ certain why, but… is it because I did not respond to your explanation about Miss Jenny’s suggestion in the way you wished?”

“You’re allowed to feel what you feel,” she says.

“As are you, but you are avoiding my question,” he presses.

She throws a hunk of meat into a container and loudly says, “I don’t know, okay? I… I don’t want to get married right now either, but… oh, hell, I’m being illogical and stupid.”

He takes her hands in his. They are greasy, but he doesn’t care. “If it upsets you, then it is not stupid,” he says. “Please, tell me what is in your heart.”

She rapidly blinks a few times, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what I was expecting your reaction to be, but it wasn’t the one I got, and it… it upset me more than I thought it would,” she admits. “You looked pretty freaked out by the idea of marrying me, and… it hurt.”

He frowns, then kisses her chicken-coated fingers. “I am so sorry, Treasure. It pains me to know I have hurt you.”

“I guess while I didn’t really want you to insist we get married immediately… knowing you at least… didn’t hate the idea of it… would have been nice,” she hesitantly says, an unexpected tear falling.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as his face takes on a pained expression. “Please do not misinterpret my reticence as reflective of my feelings for you. That is not the case at all, I promise.” He kisses her fingers again. “I love you more than I can express. I am fluent in seven languages, and still I do not have enough words to convey the depth of my feelings for you.” He thumbs away her tears and continues. “I simply am not yet… ready to take that step. Again,” he hesitantly explains. “I… I have not fully reconciled my feelings about the issues present in my marriage to Katrina, and to… legally commit myself to you before I am settled would not be fair to either of us.”

Suddenly, Abbie feels very dumb. “Oh,” she quietly says, looking at his chest. “That makes a lot of sense.” She looks up at him and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about Katrina and your son and the fact that you only _just_ found all that mess out about them.”

He gives her a small smile of reassurance and kisses her forehead. “Abbie my love, I want you to know that, when the time is right – for _both_ of us – I should like nothing more than to call you my wife.”

“I’d like that, too,” she quietly answers, surprising herself a little because she actually _means_ it. She’s honestly never entertained the thought of marriage with anyone.

His smile broadens and he dips his head to kiss her. “I do not want the ghosts of my past to haunt the future I have with you,” he murmurs, his voice soft and earnest.

“Oh,” she replies, unable to form any coherent response. Then he kisses her again, a slow, soft kiss of love and apology.

“Would it… would it help the process very much?” he asks, resting his forehead against hers. “If we married?”

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I am pretty sure that they would subject us to all sorts of tests and meetings and observations to make sure that I wasn’t marrying you _just_ to help you get your citizenship. You know, to try and cheat the system. It might be pretty invasive,” she says, leaning back against the counter.

“Hmm. Then I most definitely think we should not take that option. We can’t have them digging too deeply and inadvertently discovering my secret,” he says.

“Good point,” she says. She reaches up and cups his face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Baby.”

“I am also sorry,” he replies. “So we are, as they say, ‘good’ then?”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

“Excellent.” He leans down to kiss her again.

“I still have to finish dealing with this chicken,” she says just before his lips touch hers.

“Oh, of course,” he replies, pecking her lips once before stepping away to allow her to work.

“Did you get enough to eat?” she asks after a minute.

“I am stuffed nearly to popping,” he replies.

“Hmm, that’s too bad, because I was thinking about ice cream,” she answers, putting the lid on the container of chicken meat.

“Ice cream, you say?” he asks, perking up.

“Mmm-hmm,” she answers.

“Ohh,” he groans, clearly conflicted.

She turns toward him, handing him the container, which he puts in the refrigerator for her. “Maybe we can… work off some of this dinner first,” she says in a low, suggestive voice. “And save the ice cream for after.”

“Two desserts, how decadent,” he replies, raising an eyebrow at her.

“After we wash our hands, of course,” she clarifies.

“Oh, of course, of course,” he agrees, dropping a quick kiss on her lips before hurrying to the sink.


	12. Chapter 12

“Ohhh…” Crane’s plaintive moan rings through the room as his head drops back on the pillow. He had briefly lifted it to watch Abbie as she took his length in her mouth, sucking him in over and over again, her small hand wrapped around the base. Overcome by sensation, he found he couldn’t support his head and let it fall back onto his pillow.

Abbie swirls her tongue around the tip of his cock, then plunges her head down over him, sucking hard enough to make his body jerk.

She hums, enjoying herself more than usual. Since he got his clean bill of health from the nurse, they dispensed with the condoms (after Abbie explained her IUD), and she finally got to return the oral favor he had granted her several times.

“Oh… oh _fuck…_ ” The harsh curse word sounds strange coming from Ichabod’s mouth, but it also makes Abbie smile around his shaft before releasing him with a _pop._

She also took the exclamation to mean that he is close, so she prowls up over him, dropping kisses as she goes, until she is straddling his hips.

“Abbie…” he sighs, sliding his hands up her thighs. He is giving her a look of awed adoration that prompts her to lean down and kiss him.

Then she reaches down to take him in her hand, guiding him inside her.

“Mmm,” she moans as she sinks down over him. “Oh, that’s good…”

“Yes,” he agrees, his eyes hungrily taking her in. He is transfixed, unable to look away from her as she rides him, the soft brown skin of her body glowing gold in the light of the few candles they have lit.

She reaches down and lightly rakes her fingers through his chest hair. He takes her hands and gently pulls, encouraging her to lean down and kiss him.

“Treasure… I’m… oh dear…” he roughly stammers just before he surges his hips upward, his fingers digging into the firm but pliant flesh of her backside as he comes.

“It’s okay, Baby,” she whispers into his ear, kissing it. “You had a head start.”

He kisses her soundly, then, in one fluid move, rolls them, disengages himself from her, and slides his hand between her legs. “Allow me to make amends,” he murmurs, dipping two fingers into her as he claims her mouth again.

“Oh…” she gasps, pulling her lips from his and arching her head back. He kisses down her neck, making his way to her breasts.

“Watching you over me like that,” he speaks between sucking and licking her nipples, “after what you did with your glorious mouth,” he lightly bites her nipple now, drawing another gasp, “it was simply too much.”

Abbie is writhing under his attention, her body beginning to tremble. His fingers slide and circle, and she reaches up and grabs a fistful of his hair. A second later, she explodes, crying out and slamming her knees together.

Ichabod continues to slowly move his fingers despite being trapped, drawing her orgasm out as long as he can.

“Oh! Stop…” she pants, lightly smacking the top of his head when she feels his grin against her chest. “Crane,” she says, starting to laugh despite herself.

He kisses the swell of her breast and mercifully extracts his hand. “You are simply too exquisite in your ecstasy, my love,” he says, then kisses her.

Abbie lightly rubs the end of his nose with hers, then quietly says, “I like watching you unravel.”

They clean up a bit, then he tucks her against his side with an affectionate squeeze. “You are quite skilled at causing me to unravel,” he says. Then, a moment later, he adds, “No one has ever done that for me before.”

She lifts her head, shocked. “What? How is that possible?”

“Well, it was my belief that my wife was a Quaker. She was quite modest in our marriage bed. In fact, she never ‘rode’ me as you just wonderfully did either, now that I think about it.”

“Wow,” Abbie says, “she really played her demure Quaker role to the hilt. But you’ve gone down on _me_ … and have at least implied that I haven’t been the only recipient,” she points out, confused.

“I have had other women besides you and my late wife,” he informs. “Not many, granted, but we were not as celibate ‘back in the day’ as you likely think.”

“Okay then,” she answers, not really wanting to know any more.

He continues anyway. “It was not difficult for a privileged only child of a wealthy British landowner to find a willing maid for a quick tumble in the stables.”

She giggles, saying, “I don’t really want to know…”

“It is not as romantic as it sounds, I assure you. The smell alone might have been deterrent enough were it not for the… urgency of youth,” he says.

“Hormones, Ichabod. They’re called hormones,” she supplies.

“Whore… moans?” he asks, brows furrowing.

Abbie laughs loudly, her head falling away from him before rolling back and pressing a kiss to his chest. “Oh my God… I never noticed it sounded like that… It’s nothing to do with whores or moaning, Baby. You can look it up tomorrow.”

“After we meet with Miss Caroline and Mr. Parrish,” he reminds her.

“Of course. I wouldn’t forget that,” she agrees. She had called Caroline the day after Jenny and Joe brought over Crane’s documentation, but the realtor wasn’t able to set up a meeting with the museum director until the following week. Caroline had warned them that the museum director, Henry Parrish, could be a bit prickly and hoped they could catch him in a good mood.

He looks down at her and sees her eyes are closed. “Do not fall asleep yet, Treasure,” he gently says, kissing her forehead. “You have not yet swathed your hair.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agrees, snuggling in closer with a sigh. Then, his words fully register and she opens her eyes again. “Did you say ‘swathed’?”

“Yes. It means ‘to wrap in fabric’. Is that not what you do?”

She laughs and drags herself out of bed. “Yeah… just not a word I’ve heard since Sunday School,” she sleepily says as she shuffles to the bathroom.

 

xXx

 

“Prickly” wound up being an accurate term to describe Henry Parrish. “Curmudgeonly” and “particular” would also apply.

Fortunately, those terms could _also_ be used to describe Ichabod Crane.

Abbie trails along behind the two men as they walk through the museum, discussing artifacts and historical minutiae that most people would find dreadfully uninteresting. In truth, she stopped listening some time during a discussion of colonial textiles, deciding to simply enjoy the free museum tour.

“…yes, but General Washington was a brilliant…”

She smiles, trying not to sigh too loudly. She has learned that Crane holds Washington in the highest regard, bordering on hero worship. His intimate knowledge of the man himself is one of the things that won over Mr. Parrish.

His criticism of the American flag on display, incorrectly credited as one stitched by Betsy Ross, was the other.

 _Who knew the old man would respect being corrected?_ Abbie muses, watching Crane’s hands as he describes how to load and fire the musket on display before the two men.

They encounter a group of children in matching t-shirts from some sort of day camp on a field trip. The museum guide is telling them about Paul Revere’s ride, and when both men begin to visibly bristle, Abbie has to press her lips together and turn away to hide her laughter.

_Peas in a damn pod._

“Steven,” Henry calls to the guide, interrupting him. “If I may… discretion would have been of utmost importance, so Revere would not have been shouting in the streets like a common hooligan.”

“Quite,” Ichabod agrees, chiming in. “And in fact, at the time of Revere’s ride, we—that is, the people who lived here, still considered themselves to be British.”

“Yes,” Henry says, nodding, his eyes alight behind thick glasses. “His message would _not_ have been ‘The British are coming!’ at all.”

“He would have said, ‘The _Regulars_ are coming’. As discretely as possible,” Crane concludes. He and Henry look at one another, nodding with satisfaction.

“He is somewhat new,” Henry mutters to Crane. “I will see to it that his facts are correct before he leads the next tour.”

“Um, thank you, Sir,” Steven says to Henry. “Children, this is Mr. Parrish, the director of this museum, and… I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“This is Ichabod Crane. Dr. Crane is going to be the new curator for the American History exhibit,” Henry declares.

Ichabod’s eyes grow as wide as saucers, then he immediately turns and finds Abbie, beaming at her. She grins and gives him a thumbs-up. He awkwardly returns the gesture, then returns his attention to Henry. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Parrish. I promise you shan’t be disappointed,” he says as the children file away to the next display.

“I know I won’t be,” Henry confidently replies. “Come. We have paperwork to complete, and I will need to submit forms for your work visa. Miss Mills,” he suddenly turns to Abbie, startling her.

“Yes?” she asks, stepping over.

“I am not an easy man to impress,” he says, offering his arm. Slightly bewildered, she tucks her hand into the bend of his elbow. “But your friend here has the most in-depth, detailed knowledge of American history I have ever seen.”

“He is amazing,” she agrees, smiling up at Crane.

“Yes.” Then, Henry chuckles. “One might think he had actually been there, the way he talks,” he adds.

Abbie laughs, then pokes Crane, who joins their laughter. “He looks good for 200, doesn’t he?” she says, just for good measure.

 

xXx

 

Since their meeting with Henry went so well, they decide to stop for a little celebratory coffee treat before continuing on with their planned excursion to visit a couple of furniture stores.

As the coffeeshop is busy, Abbie goes to find them a table while Ichabod waits for their drinks.

“Good to see you out and about, Mills.” Danny’s voice startles Abbie, and she sharply looks up from her phone, where she was texting Jenny.

“Oh… hi Danny,” she answers, briefly glancing at him before looking towards the front of the shop, trying to spot Crane.

“You meeting someone?” he asks, resting his hand on the back of the other chair at her small table. Hoping for an invitation.

“Um, not exactly,” she answers.

His grip tightens on the chair, preparing to slide it out.

“Here we are, Treasure,” Crane says, suddenly appearing with cups clutched in his hands. He also has a scone balanced atop one cup. “Your latte has been prepared just to your specifications. Oh, hello.”

“Hello…?” Danny greets, extremely confused. He steps aside, away from the chair, as Crane moves closer to hand Abbie her cup.

“Thank you,” she tells him, then steels herself and stands. “Danny, this is Ichabod Crane. Ichabod, Daniel Reynolds.”

“Ah! Director Reynolds, I have heard much about you,” Crane says, setting his own cup down to offer his hand to shake.

The perplexed Danny grasps Crane’s hand and shakes. “Wish I could say the same,” he replies.

“Yes, well that would likely be my fault,” Crane explains, keeping his tone charming and polite. “I appeared rather unexpectedly in the middle of Miss Mills’ sabbatical.”

“Um, yes,” Abbie interjects, stepping between the two men. “Ichabod and I are old friends,” she explains. “It’s a strange story actually. We were childhood pen pals, but our correspondence was a little… sporadic because he’s pretty much lived his whole life off the grid.”

“Then an opportunity arose that allowed me to come here, and Abbie and I simply… resumed the fast friendship we formed when we first met as children,” Crane finishes, smiling indulgently down at Abbie while possessively placing his hand on the small of her back.

“So… the two of you are…?” Danny prompts.

“Having coffee,” Abbie pointedly says, her tone clearly conveying that this conversation is over.

Crane’s lips twitch, and Danny clears his throat. “Right. You’re right. It’s not my business,” he quietly says. “Well, um, Mr. Crane…”

“Dr. Crane,” Abbie blurts, not sure why she feels the need to both correct Danny and inform him that her man is highly educated. “He’s got a PhD in History, and has just been hired as the new curator at the museum.”

“The one in town here?” Danny asks, looking less than thrilled that Crane is going to be sticking around.

“Yep,” Abbie answers.

“Oh. Well. Congratulations then, _Dr._ Crane,” he says, putting just enough emphasis on the “doctor” to almost be derisive. “It was… nice meeting you. Enjoy your coffee.”

“The pleasure was most assuredly mine, Director Reynolds,” Crane returns, even offering a slight bow.

“Yeah, it was,” Danny agrees. “See you after Labor Day, Abs,” he finishes, and begins walking away, heading towards the counter.

Abbie slumps into her chair, and Crane joins her, pulling his chair around beside hers. He wraps his arm around her and kisses her temple.

“I believe the correct terminology to be used here is ‘awkward’,” he says, singing the word.

Abbie snorts a laugh, then picks up her cup and sips. “See what I mean?”

He nods and sips his drink. “I must say I did detect a certain tension in the air during our conversation.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he quite gets that it really is over between us. Him and me, I mean,” she says. Crane nods, and she adds, “Even if I _did_ still have feelings for him – which I most definitely do not – I would not date my boss. It’s just not a good idea.”

He nods. “May I ask something?”

“You want to know why I didn’t confirm his implication that we are _together_ ,” she guesses, and he nods. “To remind him of that line he wants to blur. He’s my boss. My personal life is not his business, and I needed to make that clear to him. Plus I wanted him to go away before he got out his tape measure.”

Crane’s nod of understanding turns to confusion on her last sentence. “Tape measure?”

Abbie snorts, then pats his hand. He turns it and threads his fingers through hers. “I’ll explain that one later.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Mmm, that’s good. And I hope I didn’t embarrass you, braggin’ on you like that.”

He smiles. “Not at all. I… rather liked your little show of possessive pride on my behalf.” He lifts his cup and takes a careful sip. “Oh, that is good,” he moans.

 _Damn, he has to do that in public?_ She smiles at him, then reaches for a napkin to wipe the foam from his mustache. “Well, if nothing else, I think Danny’s got the idea now that I’m not interested in rekindling anything.”

She looks up to see him gazing down at her. “I must say I understand his despair,” he says, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I do not think I ever want to imagine what it would be like to have you and then lose you.”

Drink in hand, Danny turns around just in time to see Crane lean down and kiss Abbie, his long fingers skimming her jaw. It is a small kiss, but when they part, he can see the adoration on both of their faces. His jaw twitches once, then he hurries out the door.

 

xXx

 

“Abbie?”

Abbie turns, the voice calling her name familiar. “Hey, Ash,” she says. Then she sees Frank is with him. “Hi, Frank.”

The two men walk towards them, so Abbie and Ichabod wait on the street outside the furniture store they just exited. They had found a dining room table they liked, but decided to look around some more before making a decision.

“Is this him?” Frank asks, looking up at Crane.

“Yes,” Abbie says, smiling. “Ichabod Crane, this is Frank Gage and Ash Spears. And Aya.”

“It is an honor to meet you,” Crane greets. He gives them a slight bow and says something in Shawnee.

Frank replies, also in Shawnee, looking very impressed. “You speak Shawnee very well,” he says.

“Thank you,” Crane replies. “But I will admit I am far from fluent.”

“Well, your pronunciation is quite accurate. Probably because you learned it from people who regularly spoke it,” Frank says with a chuckle.

“What did you say?” Abbie asks.

“I thanked him for his help in bringing me back,” Crane explains.

“You look like you’re adjusting pretty well,” Ash says.

“Yes, well, the years of observation has helped with my adjustment,” Crane replies, looking down at little Aya, who has trotted forward to sniff at Crane’s shins. “What a lovely dog!” he exclaims, stooping down. “Hello.”

“She’s a chihuahua,” Ash explains. “I don’t know if they made it up here by the time you were around the first time.”

“Oh yes, I am familiar with the breed,” Crane says, briefly scratching Aya behind her ears

before standing again.

“We were just heading to get some lunch,” Abbie says. “Care to join us?”

“Would love to, but can’t,” Frank answers. “We’ve already eaten, and Ash and I have to get back to the shop and install this fuel pump.” He taps a box Ash is carrying under one arm. “The owner is picking his bike up at two.”

“Well, it was great to see you,” Abbie replies. “Thanks again.”

Frank gives her a brief hug. “You are welcome, Abbie. I am heartened to see how well it all worked out. You look very happy.”

“I am,” she says, slipping her hand into Crane’s.


	13. Chapter 13

_Reynolds is leaving._ Sophie’s text stares up at Abbie from her phone.

She stares back, unsure if she’s reading it correctly. _Leaving?_ she replies.

_S: The director of the Chicago office retired. Danny jumped at it. Said he wanted a bigger district or some bullshit._

Abbie rolls her eyes, knowing Sophie would have likely done the same on hearing his reason. Abbie didn’t have to tell her friend and fellow agent about her history with Danny; Sophie is amazingly perceptive and figured it out on her own.

_A: When?_

_S: He’ll be gone before you come back. Convenient, right?_

Abbie stares again. Before she can reply, another text comes.

_S: Rumor has it they want you to be the new director._

She almost drops her phone.

_A: What? Why not you? You’ve been there longer!_

_S: I don’t want it. Walters came sniffing around and I told him to not even think about it._

_A: Why not?_

_S: I don’t want to be in charge. Hell, I barely do the paperwork I’m supposed to do now._

Abbie laughs, then replies  _Yeah, I know. Thanks for the heads up._

_S: Anytime. Hey when am I going to get to meet this man of yours?_

Abbie groans, figuring Danny probably said something extremely flattering about Crane.

_A: Didn’t you get the Facebook invite? Housewarming party on the 18_ _th_ _. It’s actually a combination housewarming/birthday party for Ichabod._

_S: Okay, it’s Ichabod. Danny couldn’t remember his name. Said it was something weird and British._

_A: Of course he did. Thanks for the heads-up._

_S: Anytime. I see the invite now. I’ll definitely be there. Can I bring anything? Gift for Ichabod?_

_A: No to both. He isn’t thrilled we’re including his birthday in the festivities, so I promised we’d keep it low-key. Of course there will be cake, but he made me promise not to have people bring him birthday gifts._

“Abbie?” Ichabod’s voice calls to her from upstairs. “Treasure?”

Abbie looks up and stands, tucking her phone into her pocket. Her phone beeps one more time as she heads upstairs and she takes it out to check it.

_S: Okay. See you then._

She sets her phone on the nightstand as she sits on the bed. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she says, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Oh, you’re warm.”

“I feel terrible,” he says. He looks pale, his eyes are bleary, and his voice sounds even lower than normal. He sniffles, then coughs, turning his face away from her. He sees the clock. “Goodness, I do not normally sleep this late.”

She hands him a tissue, then says, “I’m not surprised actually. You’ve been underground for over 200 years, and there are all new germs out here now.” He was also sneezing an awful lot yesterday and fell asleep on the couch shortly after nine last night.

“Are there more immunizations I can get?” he asks, trying to sit up.

She helps him, piling pillows behind him. “Not for this. Unfortunately, the ‘common cold’ is anything but common.” She goes on to explain how cold viruses vary and the only way to build immunity to them is to get them.

“So you will not catch this from me?” he asks.

“No way of knowing, unfortunately,” she answers with a shrug. “If I do, I do.”

“Oh, I hope not,” he replies, giving her a weak smile. “Oh dear… I am supposed to report to the museum on Monday,” he sighs.

“Yes, well today is Friday, so you have a few days to get better. You may not be completely better by then, but you should be sound enough to report to work,” she says, standing.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you some medicine, and then I’m going to make you some tea and toast. And then I’m going to make you some chicken soup,” she says.

His eyebrows lift. “Ah, yes, you did make broth from that chicken we ate a few weeks ago. I am pleased to hear that it will not be some of that… suspicious-looking ‘canned’ soup.”

Abbie nods and smiles, then leaves the room. She returns a minute later with some cold and sinus medicine and a glass of water. “Canned soup is gross and is only fit to be used as an ingredient in casseroles,” she says, sitting beside him. “I thought you might not be feeling well, so I already took the broth and leftover meat out of the freezer. And I’ll have you know I make  _good_ soup.”

“Mmm, that sounds wonderful,” he says, obediently swallowing his pills.

“Tea and toast first. Then you might like a nice, hot shower and let the steam work on your sinuses a bit,” she recommends, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be back, Baby.”

 

xXx

 

“Ichabod.”

He scrunches and moans, huddling deeper upder the blanket.

“Baby, wake up. Your soup is ready,” Abbie says, brushing his hair away from his face. She bends down and kisses his forehead. He’s still warm, but slightly less so than earlier.

“Soup?” he echoes, prying his eyes open as he scoots himself more upright on the couch.

“And you need more medicine,” she says. “You fell asleep shortly after you came down here.”

“I am sorry,” he apologizes, then spots the bowl of soup. It is on a tray atop the coffee table. Abbie picks it up and sets it on his lap. “Oh, I wish I could smell this,” he says, leaning in close. “It looks wonderful.”

“Thank you, and I don’t mind that you fell asleep,” she replies, sitting on the floor beside the coffee table with her own bowl. “Do you want some bread or crackers or anything?” she asks, dipping her spoon in.

He takes a spoonful and makes that wonderful groaning noise he makes when he really likes something. “Oh, Treasure, this is divine,” he says. “What kind of bread?”

“I made it,” she answers. “And it’s still warm.”

His eyes light up and she has her answer. She stands and returns a minute later with some sliced bread on a plate and a tub of butter. He quickly takes one, butters it, and dips it in the soup. “Mmm,” he groans.

“Do you know what you sound like when you do that?” Abbie asks, smiling as she slathers butter on a slice of bread.

“Do what?” he asks, looking genuinely surprised.

“Oh my God, you don’t even realize it!” she exclaims, laughing. “That is somehow so much better…” She composes herself and says, “When you eat something you really like, you make this  _groaning_ sound.”

“Do I?” he asks, then quickly reaches for a tissue and wipes his nose.

“Yes. It’s a very sexual sound,” she answers, getting to her original point. “Take your pills now that you have some food in you,” she adds, pointing to the two blue caplets on the table in front of him.

His eyebrow rises, and he obediently leans down and picks up the pills. He swallows them with some of the apple juice she’s given him to drink, then says, “Is it now?”

“You make a similar one when you kiss me sometimes,” she says, feeling kind of embarrassed now and partly wishing she hadn’t brought it up.

“That must be because you are delicious, my love,” he answers.

She tries to stop the giggle that threatens, but is unsuccessful, snorting a small laugh just before she takes a sip of her drink. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, fondly smiling at him.

“I assure you I am—” he pauses for a sneeze, “—quite serious.”

“I know. That’s why you’re ridiculous, and I love you for it,” she tells him. “And bless you.”

“Thank you,” he replies, reaching for another tissue. “What else were you doing whilst I slept the morning away?” he asks, knowing she likely did more than just make soup and bread, as neither of those require constant attention.

“I was looking at more furniture online,” she says with a sigh. “This is a big-ass house.”

“Indeed,” he agrees.

“I’m not looking to furnish the whole thing at once,” she continues. “But the party is next week and we still don’t have a dining room table, and this room could use at least one more chair.”

He smiles, noting her use of the word “we”. “Have you found anything you like better than the one we saw downtown?” he asks.

“No. And they’re having a sale this weekend…”

He gives her a meaningful look, then sets his spoon down to drink the remaining broth from his bowl.

“Did  _you_ like it?” she asks.

“My opinion is of little impo—”

“Ah-ah,” she says, holding up her hand. “I  _asked_ your opinion. Furthermore, if you and I are in this for the long haul, I want…  _need_ your input. We’re partners, right?”

“Yes,” he immediately answers.

“Then did you like the damn table?” she repeats.

“I think it is perfect for the space and we should also consider the coordinating sideboard. It would fit nicely along the east wall,” he answers.

She smiles and nods. “Thank you. If you’re feeling up to it, we’ll go back tomorrow.”

“And if I am not, please do go without me. You must take advantage of this sale before it is gone,” he insists.

Abbie’s phone chimes. She glances at it, rolls her eyes, then sets it aside.

“Trouble?” Crane asks.

“Everyone at work is texting me today,” she replies. “It’s nothing.”

“Your face says otherwise,” he presses, knowing her penchant for sidestepping sensitive issues.

She sighs. “All right,” she concedes, giving into a discussion they don’t need to have. “Danny is transferring to the Chicago office.”

His eyebrows rise and he quickly picks up his glass to stop the smug smile from appearing.

She sees it though, and calls him out. “It may not have anything to do with you.”

“Hmm,” he noncommittally replies. “Seems to me that it has much to do with _you_ , and I am merely peripherally involved.”

“Yes, you are but a pawn in all this,” she says, grandly waving her spoon.

“Merely a pawn?” he replies, feigning offense. “I should like to think I am a knight, at the very least, my queen.”

“Well, whatever piece you are, we don’t  _know_ for sure that you and I being you and I has anything to do with his departure,” she counters. She takes a drink of her water, then adds, “Though it does seem awfully damn coincidental.”

“Rather small of him, I must say,” Crane comments setting his tray on the table.

Abbie snorts a laugh. “Pretty funny, considering he always used to accuse  _me_ of being a runner.” She pauses, then says, “Like, being the one to avoid personal problems.”

“I understand the meaning, thank you,” he replies, giving her an understanding smile. “Well, whatever the reason, I cannot say I am dismayed at the prospect of his departure.”

“You know what? Me neither,” she says, realizing she isn’t troubled by it at all, even if she is responsible for Danny wanting to leave.

“When will a new director be assigned to your office?” Crane asks, standing to help carry the dishes back to the kitchen.

“You don’t need to help,” Abbie says, waving him away.

“No, I should like to. I need to see to some personal needs anyway,” he explains, stubbornly carrying his tray.

“You can just say you have to pee, Ichabod,” she laughs.

“No, I do not believe I can,” he returns, earning him another laugh from her. He puts his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, then heads to the bathroom. When he returns, she is portioning the leftover soup into containers. He waits for her to answer the question about the new director, but she says nothing for a few minutes. Just when he is about to prompt her, she speaks.

“Rumor has it they want me to be the new director,” she says, looking into the soup pot.

“Abbie, that’s wonderful!” he exclaims, then starts coughing. She quickly pours a cup of water and hands it to him. “Why do you not seem pleased?”

“Well, one, it’s just a rumor, so I’m not going to pin any hopes on something that may not be true,” she answers. “And two, I don’t know if I even want that kind of responsibility. It means less field work and more paperwork. And having to make the hard decisions.”

He takes her hands in his and says, “I know very little about the FBI, but I know you as well as I know myself. And I know that you will be a wonderful director, should you accept the post. You are the most capable and intelligent woman I have ever met. Both Washington and Franklin would have been as awed by you as I.”

“Wow, that’s high praise indeed,” she replies, a little overcome. “Thank you, but like I said, we don’t know for sure. Especially considering this little sabbatical I had to take.”

“I am certain they are aware of it and, if they are intelligent, will realize that taking care of your own mental well-being is to be lauded, not condemned,” he says, kissing her hands. Then he quickly releases her hands, turns away and sneezes.

“I hope so,” she says. “And bless you.”

 

xXx

 

Crane turned out to be a surprisingly good patient. Abbie had been expecting a lot of whining and carrying on about how terrible he felt (based on experiences with past boyfriends), but he complained very little, spending the weekend resting and taking the medicines she gave him.

Come Monday, Ichabod Crane was well enough to report to his first day at the museum, even bringing along a few items to contribute. Jenny and Joe returned to Crane’s crypt and found a few more of his belongings hidden away, including his uniform. Crane was reluctant to part with it but has no intention of ever wearing it again, so he decided the museum would be a good place for it. “I will simply say it belonged to my many-times great grandfather,” he declared.

Luckily, Abbie showed no sign of catching Ichabod’s cold, and, by Saturday, everything was as ready for the party as it was going to get. She had originally intended to have the party once the house was completely done, but combining it with Ichabod’s “30th” birthday was too tempting to pass up.

The new dining room table and sideboard were delivered Thursday, and she was thankful Crane pressed her to move on the purchase, because it gave her a place to set out all the food.

“Treasure, stop fretting,” Ichabod’s voice sounds behind her from the doorway of the dining room. “Everything is perfect.” He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her, bending to kiss her neck.

“It isn’t, but I appreciate your saying so,” she replies, tilting her head to encourage him to continue. She hums and closes her eyes when he complies, leaning back against him.

“Miss Jenny and Joseph will be here very soon,” he says, his lips brushing her neck as he speaks. “It would not do for them to discover us in a compromising position in the dining room,” he adds, but even as he says this, he turns her around to face him and seals his lips over hers.

Abbie winds her arms around his neck, her fingers in his hair. She lifts up on tiptoe to get closer and he groans, pulling her tighter against him.

The doorbell rings. Fifteen seconds later, it rings again in a succession of insistent ding-ding-ding-ding noises.

“Jenny,” Abbie sighs, pulling away from Crane to go get the door. “At least they wait until we answer instead of just walking in,” she says. She opens the door. “Hey.”

Jenny gives her a level look. “Y’all have been making out,” she declares, then steps inside, a crock pot in her hands.

“What?” Abbie asks.

“You look ravished,” Joe agrees, snorting a laugh. “So do you,” he adds, laughing harder when he sees Crane’s mortified expression on a face with kiss-swollen lips.

“I left you a spot here,” Abbie says, ignoring their teasing.

Jenny sets the crock pot down, then turns towards Crane. “Happy birthday,” she says, surprising him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then she nudges Joe, who produces a gift from behind his back.

“Miss Jenny…” Crane says.

“Just take the damn gift and say ‘thank you’,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him.

He does. “Thank you.”

“Open it,” Joe prompts.

“Now?”

“Yes!” Abbie and Jenny chorus.

He unwraps it and finds a box with four books in it. “Ah! The  _Lord of the Rings_ series you were recommending! Excellent,” he says, taking out  _The Hobbit_ and reading the back cover. “I have been forbidden from seeing the films until I’ve read the books, so I will start in on these immediately,” he says. He spotted the DVDs in Abbie’s collection a couple of weeks ago and was dismayed when Abbie both explained her terms and regretfully informed him that her copies of the books were with Sophie for an undetermined amount of time.

“Good,” Jenny says. “I’m looking forward to having several movie nights with you guys and listening to this one go on about how the movies are different from the books,” she adds, nodding at Crane.

“They are different?” he asks, looking truly baffled.

“Not completely,” Abbie reassures him. “There are just… things that are changed to make them more movie-friendly. You’ll understand when you watch.”

“Did you give him your gift yet?” Jenny asks, looking at Abbie.

“No,” Abbie says. “He might like it now, before everyone else shows up…” she muses. “Be right back.”

“I’ll dispose of these wrappings and put the books in a safe place,” Crane says.

Abbie finds them in the kitchen when she returns, and hands Crane a medium-small box.

“Whatever could this be?” he asks, pondering it. He tears open the wrapping and discovers she’s gotten him his own cell phone. “My own smart-phone,” he says, slowly smiling.

“Yep. Now that you’re a modern, working man, you need all the accessories,” Abbie says.

He leans down and kisses her. “Thank you, Treasure.”

“You’re welcome. And now you can stop stealing mine,” she replies, laughing.

“Oh dear, this means I shall have to start afresh on Two Dots…” he mutters, turning it on.

“Oh dear, what a hardship,” Abbie responds, rolling her eyes.

“When did you do this?” he asks, his long fingers already poking and swiping.

“While you were at work this week,” she answers. “Work is another reason I wanted you to have a phone,” she continues, watching as pokes around.

“Oh! There are already names in the contacts list,” he exclaims.

“Yeah, your account is connected to mine, so the contacts in my phone are in yours too,” she explains. “Anyway, when I go back to work… if something happens to me, I’ll need you to be easily reachable.”

He looks up. “Oh. Oh my. Yes, I suppose that is a valid concern in your line of work,” he says, his expression sobering.

“Well, if they make you Director, it won’t be as big a concern,” Jenny pipes up. “I don’t know about you, Ichy, but I would certainly feel better if she’s doing more paperwork and less field work.”

“Jenny…”

“What? I’m allowed to be worried about my only sister, just like you worry about me. So don’t start,” Jenny defends herself.

Abbie sighs, shaking her head. “I know. Thanks,” she concedes, looking at Crane. “You got something to say too?”

Ichabod thoughtfully pauses a moment, then says, “I did not wish for my opinion to influence your decision about whether or not you would accept the Director post if it is offered to you. It is not my place to tell you what you should and should not do.”

“That is a very careful answer,” Abbie says, pursing her lips, knowing he’s deliberately holding back.

“That being said… I agree with Miss Jenny,” Crane admits.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Abbie says. “And I want you to know –  _both_ of you – that your opinions do matter to me, and I would be lying if I said I had no regard for my personal safety. I’ve been reckless in the past and know the risks. But now… especially now that I have so many more reasons to be mindful of my safety…” she trails off, leaving the sentence hang there for a few seconds. “When it comes down to it, I will be taking every aspect of the job into consideration when making my decision. If it is even offered to me.”

“It will be,” Joe remarks. “Why wouldn’t they? You’re the best agent in that office.”

“Because they might bring in someone from the outside who has more experience as a Director, that’s why,” Abbie counters.

“Oh like they did when they brought in Danny?” Jenny asks with a smirk. “Didn’t you place higher than him in, like, everything, at Quantico?” Abbie says nothing, so Jenny continues. “Yes. You did. And you both knew it and now his ass is leaving because he feels threatened by another stallion in the stable.” She pauses again. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Abbie purses her lips a moment. She is just about to open her mouth, but the doorbell rings. “Thank God,” she sighs, and goes to the door.

 

xXx

 

The party goes well. Ichabod makes frequent use of his new phone, snapping pictures often. Mostly of Abbie. He charms everyone he meets, and spends a good amount of time talking with Caroline and her partner, Zoe, about the re-enactment group. Even cantankerous old Henry shows up and seems to enjoy himself. He seems to be very impressed with the work they had done on the house. Abbie even catches him smiling a couple times.

Danny, who was still invited, never appears.

Sophie stayed the longest, having missed Abbie and always enjoying Jenny’s company. She also insisted on knowing everything about Crane, grilling him with questions until, helpless, he looked to Abbie, who returned his lost expression.

“I don’t believe one word of your story,” Sophie pressed while she helped them clean up. “Where are you really from? And how are you so tight with those Shawnee guys if you’ve only been here a short time?”

“Tell her,” Jenny finally, quietly, says, head bent over the sink as she washes the dishes that won’t fit in the dishwasher. “You know she’s not going to let up until you do. And we can trust her.”

“Yes, tell me,” Sophie says. “Were you in prison? Are you with the Witness Protection Program? Because if so, I’m FBI so it’s my job to protect you.”

“Soph,” Abbie says, gently taking her friend’s arm and leading her to the kitchen table. “You’re not going to believe the truth.”

Sophie is about to make a flippant comment, but then sees Abbie’s face. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” Abbie answers. “And you have to promise that this information does not leave this house.”

“Ooh, this is gonna be good. Of course I promise,” she says, holding out her pinky. Abbie hooks hers around Sophie’s for a second. “Baby, tell her how old you are.”

“I am 265 years old today,” Crane dutifully answers, putting away the dishes after Joe has dried them.

“ _What?_ ” Sophie exclaims. “Are you, like, a vampire, or something? Because you look… really good.”

“No, he’s not a vampire, but you’re kind of in the ballpark. Well, maybe in the parking lot outside the ballpark,” Abbie replies.

Crane turns towards Sophie. “I was injured during the Revolutionary War, in what you know as the Battle of Yorktown. It was presumed that my injuries were fatal, but that was not the case.”

“Go on…” Sophie prompts, clearly waiting for more of an explanation.

They tell her everything, and she listens, riveted, the entire time. When they finish, it is quite late, but she still says, “Show me. I want to see the crypt.”

“Ugh, come back tomorrow; we’ll show you then,” Abbie groans.

“Come on…”

“Wait, so you’re cool with this?” Abbie  suddenly  asks. “I mean,  _witches_ , Soph…”

Sophie makes a dismissive snort and says, “Please. My great-grandmother was reportedly a witch. My dad insisted she _knew_ things. And I’ve seen _plenty_ of unbelievable shit on my job, believe me.”

“Fair enough,” Abbie responds with a shrug. “But it’s too late to go now, really.”

“Tomorrow, we promise,” Jenny insists. “We’re all beat.”

“Well, you don’t have to come,” Sophie tries. “You can go home if you want.”

“Sophie, I love you, but you need to go home,” Abbie says with a laugh. “It’s almost midnight, and I’m exhausted.”

“Miss Foster, it would be easier to see the chamber in the light of day,” Ichabod adds, trying to appeal to her sense of logic.

“Fine,” Sophie says, standing. “Tomorrow. I’ll even bring lunch. Has Yankee Doodle here had Mexican food yet?”

Crane’s eyes light up, the prospect of new food overshadowing her tease. “No, but I am always excited to try new cuisines.”

“Oh, good. My tío owns the best Mexican place in town. He’ll hook us up real good,” Sophie says.

“Tío is ‘uncle’ in Spanish,” Abbie quietly explains to Crane as they walk to the door. “Her mother is of Mexican descent.”

“I look forward to it,” he says, smiling. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Foster,” he says, clasping her hand.

“I… can’t even come up with the right adjective for how I feel about meeting you, Crane,” she replies, pulling his hand and hugging him. “But ‘amazing’ comes pretty close.” She releases Crane, says, “See you tomorrow,” and bounds down the stairs to her car.

 

xXx

 

Jenny and Joe leave soon after. Abbie and Crane stand in the foyer, merely absorbing the silence.

“Parties are fun, but sometimes I wish I could have Last Call,” Abbie says with a sigh. Ichabod looks down at her with his “please explain” look, so she takes his hand and says, “When a bar is approaching closing time, they have what’s called ‘Last Call’, where they basically announce that they’re closing soon and everyone needs to leave.”

He chuckles and pulls her into his arms. “I do so love the way you explain things,” he says, kissing the top of her head, then her lips when she looks up at him. “You never make me feel foolish for my ignorance, and I appreciate that very much.”

“You’re welcome, Baby,” she replies, tightly wrapping her arms around him.

“This time is truly one of wonder,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ears and caressing her face. “So many marvelous things. The food alone is staggering.” She smiles, remembering his favorable reaction to the Thai food they had last week. “And indoor plumbing…” he trails off.

“Electricity,” she suggests. “Courtesy of your friend Benny Frank. Well, partly.”

He chuckles, his hands sliding up and down her back. “Do you know what else I like about this era?” he asks, nuzzling her nose, then kissing her again.

“Oh, I know lots of things you like,” she purrs, lightly nipping his lower lip.

They kiss for a time, Abbie not realizing that he has been gradually walking her towards the stairs. Then he breaks away and says, “Power tools.”

“What?” she laughs.

“One of the best things I’ve encountered since my return. You have no idea how much work it was to do even the most minor repairs,” he says. Crane was much handier than Abbie would have thought, and has been extremely helpful with fixing up the house.

“You are impossible,” she says, fondly smiling up at him.

He scoops her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and says, “I am merely  _improbable,_ my love.” Then he carries her up the stairs.

Ichabod gently deposits Abbie on the bed, then kneels down beside it, reaching out to remove the sandals from her feet. She watches with interest as he sets them aside, then slides his hands up her legs. He rises and climbs over her, shoving his shoes off with his feet as he does so.

She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down to kiss. She can feel his fingers blindly opening the buttons on the front of her sleeveless blouse, then his hands as they cover her breasts.

She pushes him back and returns the favor, unbuttoning his shirt and shoving it off of his shoulders. He tosses it aside and it joins hers on the floor.

In moments, they are both naked, hands blindly groping as they lose themselves in one another, kissing with abandon.

“Abbie,” he tears his lips away and croaks, pulling her down beside him on the bed. He kisses her again, like he can’t get enough, but keeps talking in between. “There’s something… I want… to… try…”

“Okay,” she answers, not caring much about what, exactly, it is.

Her immediate acquiescence gives him a moment of pause though. “You do not wish to know what it is first?”

“What is it?” she asks, humoring him, her hand sliding down to grasp him, intending to distract him while he attempts to speak.

He groans, then says, “I do not know what to call it, but it is… oh, you are devious… a position of which I have heard tell… and… oh, you must stop, Love…”

“Oh, is that all?” she asks.

Again, he stops short. “W-what did you think I meant?”

She kisses him. “Nothing. I’ll tell you later,” she says, hooking her leg around his to pull herself closer. “Tell me where you want me,” she whispers, then lightly bites his lower lip.

He kisses her again, momentarily distracted. “On all fours, if you please,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down to her neck.

“Oh, okay. That one,” she replies, and happily obliges, moving into position, tugging some pillows towards her to support her head and shoulders.

“You’ve done this before then?” he asks, kneeling behind her, running his hands over the round cheeks of her beautiful backside.

She turns her head  to look back  at him . “You really want to talk about this now?” she asks, waggling her hips just slightly.

He notices. “No,” he curtly answers, then leans down and kisses the swell of her ass, then lightly bit es it. One hand slides around to slip between her legs while he grasps his cock with the other, moving it into place.

She moans when he pushes forward, sheathing himself within her.

“Oh, yes,” he agrees, pulling back and thrusting forward again. He slowly finds his rhythm, aided by Abbie pushing back against him. He keeps his hand between her legs, his fingers stroking her as he moves.

“More,” she gasps, dropping her head down onto the bunched-up pillow. “Please,” she adds.

He growls his agreement, snapping his hips against her, moving his hand away to grip her hips in both hands.

“Oh, just like that,” she says, digging her fingers into the pillow. A few seconds later, she sinks her teeth into it, the padding muffling her shout as she comes. 

Ichabod follows immediately, his long body tensing, then collapsing over hers, his arms wrapping around her torso. He places a line of soft, wet kisses down her spine, then leans to one side so they both collapse, spooned together. “You are wonderful,” he says after a moment, his lips still on the skin of her back. “You are wonderful and I love you very much.”

“Mmm, I love you, too,” she answers, groping for a blanket.

He chuckles and reaches out, grabbing the blanket that is out of reach of her much shorter arms. He pulls it up around them, moves just enough to fully disengage from her, and kisses the back of her neck.

She flips over to face him. “Hi,” she says.

He smiles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.  “Do you need to go ready yourself for sleep?” he ask s.

“Yes,” she answers. “But first, did you want to know what I thought you were going to ask me to do?”

He gives her an uncertain look. “Do I?”

She snorts, then whispers in his ear before slipping out of bed, laughing all the way to the bathroom at the shocked look on his face.


	14. Chapter 14

_Abbie finds herself walking in the forest for the first time in months, her feet steady on the familiar path to the clearing. When she reaches it, it is still as she remembers it from her old dreams, with the four strange white trees and solitary bench, not the carefully landscaped hidden garden complete with small gazebo._

_There is one difference, something she doesn’t notice until she hears a strange sound. It’s not the sound of Ichabod’s voice._

_It’s a high wail, slightly nasal, and unyielding._

_Abbie whirls around and sees a white bassinet in the center of the clearing. As her feet carry her towards it, she thinks,_ I swear that was not there a second ago. _She automatically reaches down and lifts the crying baby into her arms, making soothing shushing noises._

_She doesn’t even need to see her own doe eyes colored blue looking back at her to know that this child is hers._

_Hers and Ichabod’s._

_“Shhh,” she soothes, and the baby calms some. She sits on the bench and, again without thinking, places the baby at her breast, where it latches on and begins hungrily nursing._

_She gazes down at the baby, a wave of love washing over her. She reaches up and smoothes her hand over the halo of soft curls surrounding the child’s head._

_She leans over and places a tender kiss on the baby’s forehead…_

…and suddenly wakes up. She sits bolt upright in bed, her hands grasping for the warm bundle she had been holding. She exhales and her empty hands fall into her lap. “Shit,” she whispers, lightly rubbing her hand over her face. “What was that?”

She looks over and sees Ichabod’s sleeping form beside her. His mouth is slightly open, his face completely relaxed. She smiles, enjoying seeing him so relaxed and still. When he is awake, he is always moving, his eyes taking everything in. She reaches over and runs her fingers through his hair, the dim light from the alarm clock glinting on the gold band on her left hand. It’s only been there a month, and she’s still not quite used to seeing it.

“Abbie?” Ichabod mumbles as he blindly gropes for her. “What are you doing up? You have that debriefing in the morning; you should be sleeping.”

“I had a dream,” she says. “Like… like the kind of dream I used to have before we brought you back.”

He opens his eyes and lifts up on his elbows. “Come back down here; you’re going to catch a chill,” he says, pulling her down and tucking her against his side. The winter was brutal and the weather doesn’t seem to realize that it is nearly April. “Was I in the dream?”

“No,” she answers.

“Oh, that’s a relief,” he sighs, his eyes closing again. “I would hate to think that I was still around in spectral form somewhere. Especially now that we’ve  _finally_ got everything settled here.”

She chuckles, snuggling against him. Despite the harsh winter, they got a lot accomplished. They finished the major work on the house, hosted a Christmas Party for the re-enactment group, spent New Year’s in the city – not going anywhere near the mess that was Times Square – and Crane officially became a U.S. Citizen, thanks in no small part to Henry Parrish’s glowing reference and insistence that Ichabod Crane remain in this country because he has become an essential member of the museum’s staff.

With all that sorted, Crane finally felt emotionally, personally, and financially stable enough to propose to Abbie, which he did on Valentine’s Day.

Not wanting to wait, they were married two weeks later on the first of March. They had a small, private ceremony in the clearing, in front of the white trees.

“There was someone else in the dream with me though,” Abbie says.

“Was there?” he asks.

“A baby. It was ours,” she answers.

He sits up quite suddenly, looking down at her. “Abbie…” he gasps, “are you…?” his eyes drift towards her stomach.

“I don’t think so,” she answers. “I still have my IUD, but… maybe this dream is telling me I should get it  taken out ?” she ventures.

He sinks back down into the bed and kisses her quite thoroughly. “If it is your wish to do so… I would be overjoyed,” he says.

“I don’t know if I’m ready, but I think very few people are ever  _completely_ ready for that,” she says.

“True,” he allows. “And now that you are the Director of your office, I will not have to worry about you being out in the line of fire while carrying our child.”

She chuckles. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not even pregnant yet.”

He leans his head down and kisses her. “If you did not have your early meeting, I would suggest we begin practicing immediately,” he rumbles.

“It’s not  _that_ early,” she says, her hand beginning to wander.

“Abbie…” he groans, giving in to her wishes as usual. His eyes blissfully close as she climbs over him, and when her soft lips press his, her sweet tongue slipping into his mouth,  he wraps her in his arms, never wishing to let go.

S he  sighs into him, say ing a silent prayer of thanks to both the soldier for injuring him and Benjamin Franklin for never getting around to reviving him.

Those misfortunes  allowed them to find one another, resulting in a life together neither of of them could have ever imagined.


End file.
